From Darkness, the Light Shines
by Footprints In The Snow
Summary: He nearly fell from the tree when he heard it. A distant howl broke the air, causing the hairs on his arm to stand on end. And then, a second howl. And a third. All forming the chorus to a haunting tune that spilled across the night like crimson blood on a broken battlefield... Part four in the To Save a Prince series. Young Legolas.
1. Chapter 1

**A quick disclaimer:**

**From Darkness is the fourth story in a larger series of works that include "To Save a Prince," "In the Darkest Corners," and "The Flame to Light the Way," in that order. HOWEVER, I have worked hard to ensure that this story can stand alone as much as possible without the need to read the others. Most of the characters and backstories are summarized in an effort to avoid alienating any readers who are either unfamiliar with my work, or who simply don't want to have to go back and read three other stories to get to the one that interested them first. While I would absolutely love for you all to enjoy the rest of the works in this series, I am just glad to have you here reading this one.**

**There will be another more detailed author's note at the end of this chapter outlining a little bit more of an explanation for why I've written this story in the manner I chose. But, without further ado, here is From Darkness, the Light Shines.**

**-FiTS**

* * *

_On his very next breath, his feet halted their progress down the forest path. His upper body seemed to struggle at first to catch up with the rest of him, he had stopped so suddenly. His mouth grew dry and his entire body felt as though he had been struck with lightning. A stench unlike anything in _Arda_ pervaded his nostrils, turning his stomach and setting his heart racing. It smelled of death and rot, so strong he could taste the bitterness of it on his tongue. His mind screamed at him while his body was several steps behind._

* * *

"Where are you?"

A smooth, velvety voice washed over the slender form of the youngest prince of Mirkwood. The urging tone hadn't quite broken the concentration the youngling had on his current task as he fixed his dark-blue eyes on the sun-bathed, fading green of the training grounds. The feel of his arrow between his fingers dominated the majority of his attention, but not so much that he couldn't focus on his surroundings.

His feet were planted in the soft wetness of the ground and his hands were steady, but the raw energy flowing through his body had Legolas fighting not to fidget. His entire body felt tightly coiled, ready to burst forward at the slightest command. Like a flame, eager to lick at dried wood and start an inferno.

"I am on the field, sir," he breathed in, still holding the arrow, arm drawn back and prepared to release it.

"No," the voice answered, a sly smile hidden in its depths.

Nildon, his new archery instructor, stood directly in the path of his arrow, forcing Legolas to hold steady—lest he shoot his teacher in the throat. Legolas was certainly not ready for that kind of disaster and was sure that such an action wouldn't be appreciated. "You are not here, but within yourself. What do you see?"

He was a strange elf, Legolas had to admit. This was only his third session with the peculiar elder, and he still wasn't quite sure whether the elf had all of his faculties intact. Each session had been more confusing than the last, layer upon layer, piled so high that Legolas had no clue what to expect each time he stepped on the field. What new mystery would be laid atop the last? Only the knowledge that it was his father's—his king's—command that he train with the archery master kept Legolas from abandoning his assignment.

"I see you, standing in my way," Legolas deadpanned, smiling with mirth. "You must have a death wish."

"No!" Legolas flinched, sweat beading on his brow and the amused smile falling from his pale face. He was thankful he hadn't released his arrow just then as he was startled from his jaunty reply. "Close your eyes, princeling."

His arms were beginning to burn with the strain of holding his position for an extended time, but he put that aside and listened closely. Dark blue eyes slipped closed, while Legolas silently begged the gods for the strength not to loose his arrow into his instructor.

"You have excellent skill, young one," Nildon began. "But a 'perfect' shot will not always fell your targets. True perfection must be _instinct_. You must learn to let go of all else, and to _make_ perfection yours."

Confusion washed over him, making him feel more stifled and warm; how could one ever fire a true, accurate shot without being able to see their surroundings?

Blue eyes were still shuttered behind pale ivory, but the crisp _crunch_ of dried leaves told him his teacher had finally stepped away from the path of his arrow. _'Thank the _Valar!'

"Keep your eyes closed," the smooth voice was now just behind and to the right, leaning toward him. "What do you see?"

Legolas opened his eyes, lowering his bow and looking back at his teacher in confused irritation. How was he supposed to know if he wasn't looking?

"Did I say to look? —Close!"

Releasing his frustration into the charged atmosphere around him, Legolas took another deep breath and his eyes slipped shut once more. Shaking arms protested as he raised the bow yet again and set his stance. What did he see? Other than the inside of his eyelids.

"You must learn to see without your eyes, Legolas. See with your ears, what do you hear?"

Nildon paused, bringing a stillness to the air as he waited for an answer Legolas was unaware he should provide. The young adolescent was growing more confused by the minute.

"Well?"

Startled, Legolas listened only half-heartedly. Irritation washed through him, heating his cheeks and sparking a fire through his blood. He fought the urge to shake his head and sigh like a fed-up child after a long day and too many sweets.

"Um, I hear the wind?"

"Do you?" The older elf tutted disapprovingly, crushing more leaves as he shifted from one foot to the other. "You don't sound so sure. Ignore all else, listen closely! What do you hear?"

Legolas sighed after all, but allowed himself to really listen to the training grounds. He told himself this was important, fighting back the childish urge to throw his bow to the ground and storm off. Nildon was a proven instructor, despite how 'strange' he was. The elder got results, and Legolas needed them. Craved them, even.

Letting everything else fall away, he opened himself fully to his surroundings, breathing deeply and releasing the last of the tension he was holding onto. For a moment, he heard nothing but his own breathing. But after several long seconds, his untrained ears began to pick up things he wouldn't have noticed before.

"I hear the wind, in the trees. It isn't very strong, but the trees are enjoying it anyway. They're shaking their limbs with it. And I hear—um, I hear something rushing? Maybe water? A stream, I think."

"Good, child. What else?"

The youngling stood very still, like a sapling among the trees, wanting to please his instructor as he listened even harder. His brows furrowed and his head tilted ever so slightly as his brain tried to make sense of what his ears were picking up. What image could he create with the puzzle pieces in his ears?

"Something else. An animal, I think. Small. Not far, just past the trees. And you, I can hear you breathing and shifting your feet."

"Keep your eyes closed," Nildon instructed, while he moved around the boy once more. "I want you to ready your bow, but do not release."

Legolas did exactly as he was directed, finding he was more relaxed now with his eyes closed. He took a deep, cleansing breath and drew back the bow, waiting patiently for the next instruction to follow.

"See with your hands, what do you feel?"

The elfling gripped the arrow nock tighter in his fingers, rolling it slightly between his first and second digits.

"I feel the arrow between my fingers. It's warm, I've been holding it awhile. And it's soft on the back of my fingers from the fletching, but rough at the end of the wood."

"And your body?"

Legolas flexed and then relaxed the muscles in his arms, rolling his shoulders back with a deeper breath in as he set himself even further in his stance and increased the ache in his muscles.

"A little tired. My arms burn, but I feel better now with my eyes closed. And I'm warm, I can feel the sun on my face."

More dried leaves crunched and crackled, stilling somewhere near his left side.

"So, answer my first question. What do you see?"

What did he see? He remembered the target across the field, already struck with three of his arrows. Two of them were very close to the bullseye, as if winking and teasing him with their proximity. The weather was fair; the wind was light. He wouldn't have to work hard to keep his arrow on its path, as he wouldn't be fighting the elements.

His arms were burning with the strain of his drawn arrow, but he wasn't past his breaking point. His breathing was steady and he found that his frustration was completely gone. The irritated fire in his blood had been redirected, creating a slow burn that would fuel his body through every confusing layer of Nildon's training.

Legolas _wanted_ to release the arrow, his fingers itched to loose their burden. He could see the arrow flying through his mind, striking a clean hit on the target he had formed from memory alone.

"I see the arrow."

"You see the arrow? Not the target?"

Nildon's voice gushed with pleasure, as if he hadn't expected that answer, but that it was the answer he hoped for.

Legolas merely nodded.

"Release."

The young elf kept his eyes firmly closed, taking one last steady breath before simply letting the tension drip out of his drawing hand. His fingers emptied as the arrow left his grip. A light rush of air brushed against his face like a mother's caress and his bow snapped back into form.

He would swear he could hear the arrow slicing through the air, meeting _something_ with a light thunk. Sweat slid down his temple in a warm, itchy streak. He didn't dare open his eyes, or even relax his posture. _Valar_ please say he didn't hit anything living!

"Open your eyes, Legolas."

The smile in Nildon's voice gave him the confidence to finally open, and he squinted at the sudden, stinging sharpness of sunlight until his eyes adjusted.

With all of his senses back in use, the grounds somehow seemed almost _smaller_ than the space he had created within his mind. Even so, there was no mistaking what his eyes beheld. He'd hit the target.

Not dead center, but closer than he'd ever imagined he could get without seeing where he fired. Nildon clasped him on the shoulder before turning and declaring they were done for the day. Yet another layer had been added.

Legolas was left standing with his mouth hanging open while Nildon walked away, chuckling to himself.

What a strange elf!

* * *

The halls were filled with the sound of leather boots creaking like an old ship, and the occasional scrape of worn armor against thin fabric. A yawning elf shifted his position to a warmer portion of the hall by the window, his favorite spot at this time in the afternoon. He rolled his shoulders and stretched out his neck, stifling a second yawn in his left palm. Oh, but he was tired!

It had been a quiet watch for Limbon, which wasn't unheard of in his little part of the palace. He was responsible for guarding the halls outside of the dining chambers, a duty he had been assigned decades ago—and still took pride in.

It wasn't a noble task; he could be honest. What dangers could come from bread and wine? Save for an excess of mirth and a short headache?

But over the years, Limbon had been witness to many things. After all, everyone needed food eventually, and every elf in the keep had crossed his path one time or another.

He had to admit, his assignment had angered him at first. When he stood at his post outside the dining halls for the first time, he was nearly seething with outrage. Why had he been chosen to guard _food,_ of all things! He could be doing so much more with his time and his training!

But soon, his anger had passed. As had his jealousy of the other guards, whose duties were far more 'interesting' and 'exciting.' In fact, he believed the other palace watchmen should be jealous of _his_ post instead.

Limbon was a well-known face within the stronghold. He was as common a fixture in the palace as the stone itself. Almost everyone knew his name, and his portion of the palace was well-traveled indeed. He had stood guard just on the outside of many important gatherings, as well as many joyous ones. But his time didn't always pass quickly, and the guard had to find ways of making his assignment more entertaining.

The guard found that his favorite pastime was people-watching. The royals, especially, made his job fascinating and gave him plenty to keep busy. Often times, they kept him _too_ busy.

He first had to grow used to seeing his Elvenking on a daily basis, though he still managed to occasionally feel star-struck in his presence. There had been many failed greetings and fumbled words over the years. While the Elvenqueen had always invoked an even more nervous reaction, for her beauty had been unparalleled. His heart always seemed to stop for the briefest moment before remembering how to beat.

The princes were quite another story.

Calaeron, the crown prince, always greeted him with an easy smile as he strolled through the halls—usually snacking on something—sometimes even asking Limbon to sample whatever treats he had spent hours baking with Nerciel, the head of the kitchen. If the other elf enjoyed the food, the blond prince would always have extra to leave behind with him. Limbon was fortunate that elves were perpetually slender and couldn't pack on the pounds!

Thallion, too, made a point to stop and speak to Limbon whenever he had the time. Somehow, the guard found it easiest to talk to the dark-haired Avarin elf. Perhaps it was his soft-spoken demeanor, or his humble attitude—the prince hadn't been born of noble blood, after all—or the way he always seemed to wander down the halls as if by accident. Thallion would settle himself comfortably against the stone and ask Limbon all about his day, inquiring about the finest details, or sharing news from outside the palace, describing adventures the guard could never have dreamed up on his slowest of watches.

Faervere used to make a habit of pretending to sneak food past him, despite the fact that Limbon had no control over what the royals chose to do. It made the prince happy, and it became an ongoing game between them. Faervere would hide various foods in strange places, each more outrageous than the last, and Limbon would try to catch him smuggling them past. The places the prince would hide his goodies were just as unique as the elf was. For example, cookies and boots did _not_ go well together.

Prince Legolas had been born shortly after Limbon took his post. He was a surprise—and a gift—to an ailing kingdom. The elfling had certainly made his time outside the dining halls a real little adventure of his own over the past five decades. The child lit up the palace with his laughter and energy, almost always zipping past him on his way to one thing or another. Limbon had learned to brace himself whenever the child was near, for it was not unheard of for Legolas to knock him over in his haste.

But all of that had changed.

It had only been three months since the kingdom was plunged into darkness completely, all joy snuffed out like the candles that lit Limbon's favorite halls. An uneasy silence clung to the stone, whispering into the hearts of the elves who dwelled inside. The loss of Lanthir, the beautiful Elvenqueen, and prince Faervere, the mischievous third prince, had crippled the kingdom in ways it might never recover from. It would certainly never be the same.

Limbon had scarcely seen King Thranduil since the day when twelve fallen elves, both royals included, were seen off to their eternal resting place. Calaeron hadn't baked with Nerciel since. And Thallion rarely spoke a word to anyone.

But it was Legolas that Limbon truly worried about. That joyous energy that used to blaze past him every day had disappeared, replaced with a quiet determination that quivered just beneath the surface—just waiting to be set loose. The elfling no longer ran through the halls with innocence and abandon. In fact, the royal family hardly acted like themselves anymore.

Limbon often found himself wishing for a new post. For his current one had lost all warmth.

* * *

The silent stone halls were cloaked in shadow and bathed in a breath-stealing chill. With night came a living pause that fell over the palace, sending dread coursing through its youngest occupant. Legolas hated nighttime, more so as each day passed.

It was in the night that he felt the weakest. Darkness and shadow were formless creatures that felt no pain. No amount of training could conquer them, and Legolas couldn't fight against an enemy he could not see.

He swallowed against the dryness in his mouth, wringing his freezing hands together. Blue eyes glared at the oak imprisoning him in the frigid air of the hall, separating him from the soft warmth of his adopted brother Thallion's bedchambers. There was something almost menacing about this side of the wood, as though it were ready to reach out and grab him. He had found himself on this side of Thallion's door more often than any other in the past several weeks.

The youngest prince would forever be grateful for the gentle mentoring, friendship, and protection the older elf had always provided him with. After Thallion's Avarin family had been killed before Thallion had even come of age, when Calaeron had just reached majority and long before Faervere or Legolas had even been born, the royal family of Mirkwood had taken him in and formally adopted him as their own. Thallion was very protective of his family, and he was especially protective of Legolas.

The older elf's chambers had been a place of refuge for Legolas over the last three months after the deaths of his mother and Faervere. He had been plagued with nightmares every night since, finding it difficult to sleep even a few short hours without startling awake. Perhaps it was the close bond that drew them together, but Legolas found he had the easiest time sleeping in Thallion's chambers over any other.

The royal family had banded together since their loss, spending little time alone to wallow in their grief once the shock of the first few days wore off. They rarely spent the night in their own rooms. Legolas split his nights between Thranduil, Calaeron, and Thallion's rooms. There were a few nights where all three princes occupied one bed. Calaeron sometimes even shared a room with his _Adar_, despite being nearly two-thousand years old.

More than once, all _four_ of them had shared a room.

Despite that, Legolas couldn't help but to feel ashamed every time he approached one of his older family members in the dead of night. Deep down, he knew he needed the comfort—would be lost without it—but he couldn't admit it to himself. Needing them every single night without fail made him feel like a burden. Like another weight piled atop overburdened shoulders.

He needed to learn how to stand on his own!

But again, Legolas found that he could not. Because, like every _Valar-cursed _night before, his meager sleep was plagued with nightmares and he woke, shaking and in tears.

A chill rolled through his body and he finally gave in, rapping his knuckles against the despised oak. It had taken him long enough to seek the company and comfort of his big brother. He would just have to accept that tonight, like each and every endless night before, he couldn't bear to be alone.

He barely had time for a shaky breath when the door opened and revealed the pale, haggard figure of the black-haired Avar. His long black hair, adorned with numerous unique warrior braids, flowed about his broad shoulders like a dark cloak and he was divested of all garments besides his sleeping tunic.

The deep, easy smile on Thallion's face brought a sense of relief to Legolas, spreading warmth down to his icy toes. He'd come to the right person tonight, after all.

Thallion jerked a shoulder, motioning for Legolas to step inside and join him in the low, inviting light of his chambers. He had a fire crackling softly in the large fireplace just feet away from his bed, as though somehow already sensing that Legolas would eventually seek him out. But the younger elf shouldn't be surprised. Thallion always seemed to simply _know,_ like the information singled him out in a crowded room_._

Thallion said not a word. His lanky body sank gracefully into an armchair by the fire, and he patiently waited for Legolas to join him in the other. He simply sat and fiddled with the leather tie in one of his braids as though Legolas weren't even there, crossing a long leg over the other and sinking into the plush cushion.

Thallion never made him speak about his nightmares, never asked Legolas to share if he wasn't comfortable. Some nights, they would sit in front of the fire in the silence for hours. Sometimes the older elf would busy himself with paperwork while Legolas leafed through one of the many books that found a home in the Avar's chamber. Other times, they would sit and just stare at the fire.

Thallion never seemed put-out by the time he spent with Legolas, no matter how worn-out he was himself. Both Calaeron and Thallion had so many responsibilities, and Legolas knew he had to share his brothers with the people, but it was a comfort to know them in ways their people never could. Thallion freely offered what time he had, and that was all Legolas could hope for in the war-torn kingdom they lived in.

But tonight was different for the youngling. He wanted to talk.

For once, he had been excited about his day. After his session with Nildon, he felt lighter than he had in weeks. It had gone so well that he couldn't wait for the next one, or the one after that. It felt as though he were doing something that would actually make a real difference.

Ever since that horrible day, he had felt so lost. Adrift in a raging sea of emotions and challenges. Everyone else had a _purpose _that drove them and guided them through the storm. Something that gave meaning and depth to their struggle.

His father had the most obvious purpose. He was their king. He had a kingdom to command and people to depend on him. Thranduil rose each morning like the sun breaking through black clouds, determined to bring light to a darkened realm. King Thranduil was as reliable as could be, and Legolas knew that he—like the people—could count on him always.

Calaeron was a leader, too. He was the lord commander of the entire kingdom's army, answering to none other than the king himself. And as the crown prince, his duties to the people were very clearly defined. Calaeron was their future, the elf their hopes were laid upon. He was the one best-suited to take over should the Elvenking ever fall. The one who could one day lead them through dangerous waters and into a new age.

Thallion also had a role. Even more so now that Faervere was gone. He was their protector, their guardian in the ongoing storm. He was also a commander, in charge of almost 300 of the realm's finest warriors. He worked tirelessly to guard the kingdom, often sleeping over work in his study when he wasn't directing a war council or planning a dangerous skirmish.

But Legolas? What was his purpose? Other than to take up their nights with his troubles.

"What's on your mind tonight, Legolas?" Thallion asked softly, not pushing but gently inquiring. "I can see how restless you are."

Legolas looked down at his hands, studying the calluses that were just beginning to form across his small fingers and palms. Someday, his hands would be as rough as Thallion's and Calaeron's. One day, his hands would be marked with his purpose.

"You won't understand," he mumbled dejectedly, not meeting his older brother's compassionate gaze. The light scratching of fabric as Thallion lowered his crossed leg was somehow louder in Legolas' ears than the gentle crackle of the fire.

"I can try."

Again, he did not push. But it was his soft tone, one that always seemed to send warmth through Legolas' chest, that caused him to look up into the creased face that was half-lit with orange firelight.

Thallion was tired, Legolas could see that in the drooping of his shoulders and the hollowness of his cheeks. But despite that, the older elf still sat with him. He must have wanted nothing more than to drop into soft fabric and sleep for an age, but chose to devote his time to Legolas instead. That meant more to the young elf than anything else ever could.

"I don't know where I belong," Legolas sighed, feeling hot tears prickle at the corners of his dark blue eyes. "I don't _fit_."

Thallion stood from his chair, not saying a word, and knelt in front of his little brother. Two large, warm hands settled on Legolas' slender shoulders, gently squeezing. Legolas looked into twin pools of gray, seeking all the answers he knew the older elf could not possibly have buried within those depths.

"You don't have to find your place right away, Legolas," Thallion assured, smiling sadly at the dismay on the child's face. Thallion wished he could offer Legolas more than words. "You have so much time to figure that out. Don't rush, _tithen las._"

He then tugged on a lock of Legolas' rumpled hair, a quirk he had never quite seemed to drop, earning a watery laugh out of the younger elf.

"Let's not worry about it tonight, little one. Instead, let's worry about who can hog more of my bed, shall we?"

Legolas nodded, smiling at Thallion through his tears and rubbing his nose on the back of his sleeve.

And when the Avar opened his arms, inviting Legolas into his embrace, the child didn't hesitate to burrow himself into the comfort of his warm, strong brother.

* * *

A dying fire illuminated the uneasy pacing of a tall, weary figure. Thin shadows were cast across stone walls. Each solemn pass marked more stress and anxiety that rested not only in his posture, but his entire being. The Elvenking was beyond exhausted.

Learning how to run a kingdom without the one pillar of support he'd been graced with since the very start of his rule was proving to be more difficult than he could ever have imagined.

The depression of his realm put more weight into his steps than all the conflict he had ever seen the kingdom through during his time as king. Moreover, it wasn't just him that Lanthir and Faervere's loss was affecting. He saw signs of trauma peppered throughout the land. But nothing could weigh more heavily on him than the sadness and burden that rested on his three remaining sons.

Thranduil could hardly bear to watch the dark stain of despair settle over his boys as each day passed by. He knew he would never have made it thus far without the tireless support of Calaeron and Thallion, or the unending love and devotion from Legolas. But he despised relying so heavily on his eldest sons, despite knowing that there was no way around it.

He knew the pressure and stress was getting to them, but he couldn't do it alone. He'd learned that from the very beginning. It had taken him less than a day to realize he would be drowning if not for his sons. For the first time in thousands of years, he doubted his abilities as a king.

_Ai,_ if only Lanthir were the one left behind and not him. She would have known what to do, she always did.

"_Adar."_

Calaeron stood in front of him, stilling his endless pacing but doing nothing for the heaviness in his heart. Light blue eyes, so like his own, were filled with concern, as they almost always were now. The eldest Thranduilion looked almost as ancient as his father felt, causing a heated spark of despair to flare through the king. It was one thing to feel like a failure as a king, but to feel like a failure as a father—nothing compared.

The Elvenking dropped heavily into a chair beside the smoldering fireplace, hunching over and running long fingers through even longer hair. All semblance of regality had fled him after the heavy toll his tasks had taken. Thranduil and Calaeron had met with the quartermaster and several tradesmen earlier in the day and learned that there were shortages all throughout their kingdom.

Warriors were wearing their last sets of armor, wielding damaged blades, and carrying the barest of supplies. Food wasn't being distributed properly, the outer villages were starving, their treasury suffered a disparaging blow. Trade with the men of Dale and the dwarves of Erebor had trickled to almost nothing. Everything seemed to be falling apart around him.

It was a never-ending nightmare. How had Lanthir managed it all? She was the one who negotiated trade deals and managed commerce and made their scarcest supplies last far beyond what they should have been able to. Thranduil may have been the king, but Lanthir had been the one who best tended to the needs and interests of the people.

"We can't do this, father_,_" Calaeron sighed, lowering himself into the chair across from Thranduil's and leveling his father with a weary look. It was an almost physical pain, seeing his larger-than-life Elvenking reduced to the worried, stressed figure who sat before him. "We have to call a council session for first light tomorrow. We need to redistribute responsibility somehow. This isn't working, _Adar_."

Thranduil nodded, sitting back up and accepting his son's words with a sinking heart. No, they couldn't keep doing this. The three remaining adult royals could not run the kingdom on their own, or they would risk running themselves into the ground. When there had been five of them, they had made it work the best they could. Now, they were spread too thin.

"I know, _ion nin. _I know."

Nothing more was said. They simply called for messengers to announce the early assembly before locking themselves in their own studies to work through the night.

* * *

By morning, word of the emergency council had been carried through the stronghold on hushed whispers.

"Why is there a hearing this morning?"

It clearly wasn't just the members of the council who had heard.

Calaeron set down the cooled piece of toasted bread he had been half-heartedly nibbling on to observe his youngest brother, wondering why Legolas was suddenly curious about the council. The elfling had sworn against the council not too long ago, claiming it sounded too 'boring' for him to learn about. He had been more concerned about proving to his _Ada_ that he was finally old enough for warrior training.

"Well, we do have a kingdom to run, Legolas," he answered carefully, unsure what purpose his brother had in asking. Legolas had never wondered about the inner workings of the kingdom before, always focused on learning everything that went on _outside_ the palace walls.

Lately, though, the youngest prince had developed an almost-insatiable appetite for knowledge of any kind. He had probably devoured half the books that Thallion kept in his chambers, and he had worked his way through a fair amount of scrolls in the royal archives.

"Of course," Legolas pressed, popping a grape into his mouth between words. "But I heard it was an emergency. Is there something going on?"

The worry on the elfling's face eased some of Calaeron's discomfort at the strange line of inquiry. It had been a long enough morning already. Thallion had somehow convinced Calaeron to join he and Legolas for breakfast—not that they ate much—but the crown prince couldn't help wish he had declined the invitation instead.

"An emergency session doesn't always mean something is wrong, _Penneth," _Thallion assured. "It just means it wasn't an already-scheduled meeting. They are mostly to discuss matters that are too urgent to wait for the daily report. The council will have an emergency session for situations that call for the attendance of the elders and ministers, who are rarely in attendance, as well as situations that may require a majority vote."

"Like what situations?"

Thallion and Calaeron exchanged looks, unsure of how much to tell their brother. He had certainly changed much in the last three months, but they still felt the instinctive urge to protect him as much as possible.

"Would you like the truth, Legolas?" Calaeron fixed the youngling with a very serious look, stilling the child.

_Did_ he really want to know what was going on? Legolas was surprised his brother was offering to fill him in on something he likely would never have been allowed to know had he not picked up on the palace gossip.

"Only if you think I am fit to know it, Cal."

Thallion raised a black eyebrow, surprised by the maturity of his answer—though he shouldn't have been so surprised, after all.

"The kingdom is struggling, _tithen las," _Thallion explained, fatigue painting his voice in low, rough tones that twisted Legolas' belly into tight knots. He had long-since abandoned his grapes, for they weren't settling well in his stomach.

"We are struggling to manage it, there is simply so much to be done."

"_Naneth_ and Faervere had a lot of responsibilities," Calaeron added, and his heart ached at the mere taste of their names in his mouth. "Responsibilities that they had many years to master. And now those tasks are falling upon us to handle on top of what we already oversee."

Legolas nodded, absorbing the information. It hurt him that his brothers were so stressed, while he had nothing that he was responsible for. Their home had been a finely-run marvel, even in the worst of situations. Each member of the royal family, in their adulthood, were charged with handling various aspects of the kingdom, including the delegation of many important jobs. But now, there were two people-sized holes in the management of the woodland realm, and those holes could not be filled so easily.

"What about me?"

He knew his question would be met with resistance, but he pushed anyway. He was old enough to help, to pull his weight to some degree. Even if it meant being a simple page or a scribe, or _something_, until he had enough experience to take up a true leadership position. It wasn't fair that he sat back while those he loved worked themselves into the ground around him.

"What do you mean, Legolas?"

Thallion kept his voice level, coaxing the truth out of his brother as easily as he had always been able to do. Calaeron was glad the Avar was there, because he knew he wouldn't be able to answer all of their brother's questions alone. Thallion had always been the more compassionate brother, despite his reserved nature.

He and Legolas had been close from the day the elfling entered the world, while Calaeron had to work harder to relate to the youngest prince. They were so many years apart. All three of the eldest princes had been at least two-thousand years older than the elfling. By the time Legolas was born, Calaeron had just been appointed the commander of a company of warriors and was well on his way to commanding his own host, while also being groomed to someday—never, if the gods were forgiving enough—take over as ruler of their land.

"Let me in on the session—"

"Legolas," Calaeron interrupted. The urge to protect and shelter him was so strong it made his heart throb into his throat.

"Wait! Please," the elfling stood, squaring his shoulders and fixing the crown prince with a determined expression, freezing the older elf in place. "I just want to hear what's happening. I know I'm not old enough to be involved, but don't you think I should start learning how the council operates? Shouldn't I be allowed to do my part?"

Calaeron was so astounded by the younger elf that all he could do was stare. Legolas, who had been just a babbling infant what seemed like yesterday, was now speaking like an adult—no, _negotiating,_ like an adult. Like a leader.

"Okay," Calaeron stood too, nodding at Legolas in reluctant agreement, while also noting with surprise that the boy now stood just short of the oldest prince's shoulders. He was growing far too quickly for Calaeron's comfort. "I will speak with _Ada_ and make him aware of your request."

The crown prince then turned and left the room before anything more could be said.

Thallion leaned back in his chair, letting the tension drop out of his shoulders and he observed Legolas as the boy processed Calaeron's words. It was obvious he hadn't expected his oldest brother to agree, much less offer to pass his wishes on to their father. To be honest, Thallion hadn't expected it either, not with how tightly-wound his older brother had been lately.

"What now?"

The dark-haired elf chuckled, reaching over and tugging on Legolas' hair before pushing the child's plate of grapes back in front of him.

"Now, we eat."

Over the course of the next hour, Thallion briefly detailed the basic structure of the King's Royal Council, which consisted of the senior members of the court, the council elders, and representatives from the royal family. Additionally, there were ministers who directed several different branches of the realm's government. Not to mention delegates from outer villages.

Finding out that there was a difference between the 'court' and the 'council' nearly made Legolas' head spin.

He also carefully explained the more important aspects of attending a council session. Mostly, he discussed etiquette with Legolas. Do not fidget, do not stand but to address the council. _Do not, _under any circumstance, address the council—that was the most important. If Legolas was even allowed in, he was to be completely silent. Seen, but not heard.

Legolas had long-since finished his breakfast, not oblivious to the fact that Thallion hadn't touched his, and they carefully made their way out of the dining hall and toward Legolas' favorite spot in the gardens. They had nodded a short greeting to Limbon on their way out, but did not stop to chat. Neither stopped to wonder how long it had been since they'd visited with their favorite guard.

"Do you think _Ada_ will say yes?"

The child was looking down at his feet, carefully nudging a leaf that had settled on the stone pavers just inside the entrance to the gardens, as if it were making a run for the nearest source of warmth.

"Perhaps," Thallion leaned against the arch that opened into Legolas' gardens. He breathed in the woodsy scent of nature and shivered against the frost that was melting with the heat of his back against the stone. Winter was just reaching her fingers into the woods, tickling the trees with her ice-cold grip.

He waited for the elfling to move, Legolas' small feet crunching against the morning frost on the ground, before he pushed away from the wall and followed him. They had at least another hour before Thallion was required in the council chambers, and he opted to spend that time with Legolas.

The ice was thicker on Legolas' bench, so Thallion used the sleeve of his heavier over-tunic to brush it away before he removed the garment and settled it over the cold seat.

Legolas smiled in thanks at the gesture and sat on the still-warm fabric. If Thallion was cold, he said nothing about it. The older elf just watched Legolas' feet make patterns in the frost on the ground, each pass sweeping the white away and revealing the greenish-brown grass underneath.

"Would _you_ say yes if you were _Ada_?"

The Avar hunched forward, placing his forearms on his knees and lacing his long fingers together. His dark hair fell around his shoulders, hiding part of his pale face from view.

"I have nowhere near the wisdom our father has, Legolas," he began, separating his hands and picking at a loose thread on the left knee of his leggings. He would have to bring the garment to the quartermasters for repair soon, yet again. "But I see the necessity in including you. This is what you were born into, _Penneth._ You have a right to learn, though I know he wishes you did not have to."

"How long did it take you to… understand?"

Legolas' small hands gestured as he tried to find the right ending to his question.

"The kingdom? Or my duty within it?"

"Both."

Thallion breathed in the chilled air, rubbing his callused hands together and blowing into them in a futile attempt to warm them back up—he never could manage to keep his hands warm, not after one historically harsh winter had damaged them centuries earlier—before sitting up and dropping a muscled arm over slender shoulders. He leaned into the silence a few moments longer.

"It took me a long time to carve a place for myself into this kingdom," he started, sighing heavily against the weight of memory. "I was a very scared, angry elf when I was brought into the palace. Sometimes I feel like I still am. But as I grew to love this family, I also grew to love this kingdom and all the lives within it. Mother and Father… they never expected anything of me, they just offered me a home and a family. I owe them my life, and I think that's what urged me to involve myself more.

"I'm no good at negotiation, or at speaking my mind. I'm much more comfortable in the woods with my warriors than in a chamber discussing politics. But my birth-father was the chieftain of our Avarin tribe, so I guess I would have been given responsibility no matter what. Your own motivation will present itself to you in time and at first, you may not know what to do with it either."

Legolas nodded, even though his brow still furrowed.

"How did you _know_ that it was right? How did you know that it was what you were meant to do?"

Thallion squeezed the young elf into his side before settling a broad palm at the base of Legolas' neck, rubbing comfortingly.

"I didn't, Legolas," he smiled down at the child nestled into his side. "It just _felt_ right."

And if that left Legolas with more questions than answers, there was nothing more Thallion could say to help.

* * *

"Don't fidget."

Thallion swatted Legolas' small hand away from the hem of his tunic, where the elfling had been picking at the thin fabric.

To their surprise, a royal page had come to the gardens summoning not just Thallion for council, but Legolas as well. The Avar had decided to make himself responsible for his younger brother, urging him to stick to his side throughout the session. He had warned Legolas that it may end up being a very long, boring event, but that hadn't changed the blond elf's mind. If his brothers had to sit through it, Legolas thought, then so should he.

As they entered the chambers, Legolas couldn't help but gaze around in wide-eyed wonder. It shocked him that he had never been in this particular room before, as often as he had explored the palace as an even younger elfling.

It was colder than he expected, being so filled with elves as it was. The smooth stone of the rounded chamber had an icy glint to it, as though it had been polished with snow.

It was dressed in deep green furnishings and was filled with many wooden chairs, which were placed in a circle around the perimeter of the room. From what Legolas could discern on his own, the more ornate chairs were reserved for the council elders. The largest chair, one with an elegantly carved back, could only have been for the Elvenking. The elfling would have loved to know how old that chair was, for it was certainly much older than the king himself.

Only a few elves were seated and the chamber was filled with the low rumble of conversation, creating a river-like sound that trickled through the air.

Legolas followed his brother as the older elf crossed the room to a bundle of elves standing farthest from the entrance and even farther away from the beautiful chair Legolas wished he could see up close. Perhaps he could convince Thallion to show it to him at the end of the gathering.

Standing among the small knot of elves were Calaeron and Elhael, the late Queen Lanthir's chief advisor. Legolas did not know the names of the other _ellon _and _elleth_ who stood with them, however.

"_Mae govannen_, Legolas," Elhael bowed in greeting, as a kind smile lit his dark-blue eyes and his silver hair fell around his face. "I'm glad to see that you've joined us this morning."

Legolas merely smiled, unsure if he should speak, until he was gently nudged in the shoulder. Thallion leaned down just slightly and whispered that it was okay for him to speak until the king arrived and the meeting was opened.

"I'm thankful to be included," Legolas answered with a small bow of his own, receiving an even larger smile.

"My young lord, I'd like to introduce you to Gathon, another one of our fine advisors," Elhael gestured to the _ellon, _and then turned to the _elleth_. "And Lumornel, an expert seamstress with the quartermaster's guild."

Bestowing the two of them with a bow after they each bowed to him, Legolas gave them both a polite greeting. After introductions were made, the elves returned to their conversation, not seeming to mind that Legolas was standing with them, politely listening in.

"I'll fill you in, Thallion," Calaeron addressed his brother. "We were talking about the merits of continually repairing damaged armor and tunics over simply replacing them after a number of repairs. Lumornel asked that we weigh in with our opinions, being the recipients of many of the repaired garments ourselves."

"What is the turnover in material, beyond just our own?"

The question was directed toward Lumornel, who appeared surprised to be addressed by Thallion—unused to his preference toward being much less formal than the other royals—before she seemed to recover herself.

"We've used the same tunics, the same leather, everything multiple times," she drew in a short breath before rushing through the last of her words. "And it is even more prevalent in the lower ranks, so much more so than the leaders. Every scrap of material is wearing so thin that we find ourselves damaging more than we can repair."

Thallion folded his arms, drawing his black brows together in thought.

"What about reinforcing the material with something stronger? Perhaps you could weave something heavier into the fabric so that it can better sustain repairs?"

"You mean to create a stronger thread? Perhaps with silver, or iron?"

Thallion shook his head, a strange smile forming on his fair face.

"I was thinking something far more…unconventional," he said. "Something like the webbing of a Great Spider. _Valar_ knows we have enough in the forest, maybe we can create an organic material that behaves similarly and work it into the fabric to give it better durability."

The other elves looked completely stunned by Thallion's suggestion, though Legolas couldn't help but to picture the thick, white webs that were strung across the tops of the trees he'd found himself hopelessly lost in as a child. He and Lanthir had gone on a walk in the forest and Legolas, being so very young at the time, had wandered off the path straight into a spider's nest. If Thallion hadn't been around to hear the cries of the trees, Legolas shuddered to think at what would have happened.

"_Legolas, Penneth, come this way."_

_Thallion__ held out his arms, even as his hand twitched toward the sword at his side. He would not frighten the child further by drawing it, but he would be poised and ready should he need it._

_Suddenly, without warning, the trees were silenced. The gnawing fear in the center of Thallion's body washed over him—cutting off all pretense of calmness as he immediately drew his sword and threw himself at the elfling._

_Somehow, he'd acted just in time. As his left hand closed over Legolas' wrist and pulled him behind his bigger frame, one of the largest Great Spiders Thallion had ever seen flew out from the trees. _

_Seeing the determined elf draw his sword had frightened Legolas, but nothing could have prepared him for the sight of the spider. Never had he seen one of the much-feared Spiders of Mirkwood—he'd only ever encountered the small house spiders that occasionally crawled on the palace walls and across the floors._

_Legolas now decided that he would never be afraid of a house spider again. They were cute and cuddly compared to what Thallion held his sword against._

_It was larger than a full-grown elf, with hundreds of menacingly glittering eyes focusing on the easy prey cowering behind Thallion. Its legs were long__er__than__ Legolas was tall and it hissed in anger at the interruption._

"_Stay behind me, Legolas," Thallion drew himself to his full height and stood before the creature, brandishing his sword with confidence, despite the fear that coursed through his veins. What if there was more than one spider?__ Could the trees warn him in time? _

He didn't want to remember how large the spider that attacked him and Thallion was, but his mind drifted toward it anyway. They had survived that ordeal, leaving Legolas with the occasional spider-filled nightmare and a deeper respect for the forest.

Silence suddenly fell over the round chamber, bringing him out of his remembrance, and Legolas stood on his toes to get a better view of what caused it.

The king had arrived.

* * *

**Thank you so much for reading this chapter! Reviews are, as always, deeply appreciated and I love to hear your feedback as long as you are willing to offer it. This story is complete and will be updated regularly.**

**I did promise a little bit of an explanation for what my motivations for this story were. I realize that my fics rely very heavily on original characters, and I hope that doesn't turn away too many people. I'm running with the theme of family above all else, and the bonds that very close families share. It is my belief that the qualities of the people we love and admire often help shape us into the adults that we become, as we emulate the people we most look up to. I believe that many siblings, mine included, take on the best qualities of each other and carry them into adulthood. We learn from each other's mistakes and build upon each other's successes.**

**The biggest theme in this story is brotherhood. And to borrow a quote from The Prince of Persia, "The bond between brothers has always been the sword that defends our empire..."**

**This is the only long author's note that I will put you guys through, so thank you if you've read all the way through it! **

**Until the next chapter,**

**-FiTS**


	2. Chapter 2

Legolas tapped his fingers on the side of his leg, constantly forgetting Thallion's warning to avoid fidgeting. Words flew in and out of his ears, staying only long enough to make the elfling realize that he had no idea what any of it meant. Crop yields, field movement, supply reports. Those were all things that other people took care of.

Most of it went over Legolas' head, as a lot of it was highly diplomatic in nature, and he had yet to cover much diplomacy in his tutoring sessions with Halioth, his royal tutor. Even Thallion's quick overview had done little to help the elfling make sense of the flow of conversation.

But soon, there was a sudden shift in the tone of voices throughout the room. There was a new tension in the air that had nothing to do with crop yields and supply reports. Words like "failed" and "unable" jumped into the mix, all directed toward the king and his sons' abilities to run the kingdom. Legolas' fingers stopped their tapping and he sat forward in his seat, fixing his eyes on his father.

He had no idea things had gotten so bad.

So far, only a few of the advisors had spoken, but many of them sounded frustrated with the king, and with both Calaeron and Thallion. It seemed that everything the three eldest royals were doing was simply _not enough. _That _they_ were somehow not enough.

"Councilors," Elhael interrupted one of the elders that had been animatedly gesturing in the general direction of the king and his sons. "We are not here to point fingers at each other—we are not children in the nursery."

Shock registered on the face of the elder, causing an uneasy murmur to erupt among many of the others. The royal scribe even stopped in his hasty scrawling long enough to look scandalized before coming to his senses and continuing his duties.

"Are we not here to advise and to offer council, in order that our kingdom may prosper? I suggest we move to more productive topics, rather than to cause further strife among this chamber."

Many of the angered councilors had the decency to look thoroughly-scolded and apologetic, while a few still looked ready to revolt.

"Thank you, Elhael."

Until that point, the Elvenking had merely sat back in his chair and observed the room, gauging the mood of the councilors so as to better predict the direction the session would go. It was clearly not going the direction Thranduil had intended and he sensed it was time for him to step in and regain control.

Elhael bowed at Thranduil, relinquishing the floor to his king, once more taking his seat as the blond elf stood from his. Thranduil was impossibly tall, standing there with his rigid, icy posture that made lesser elves quiver in the face of his imposing form. In that moment, Legolas saw the Elvenking from the eyes of the people, instead of the eyes of a son.

"I have called this session for many reasons," Thranduil began, folding his hands over themselves and allowing them to be swallowed by the long sleeves of his heavy, ceremonial robes. "Not one of those reasons were to be berated by my own advisors."

The few elders who still held onto their anger now lowered their heads in shame, like chastised elflings.

"My sons, your princes, have been working tirelessly to take this kingdom onto their shoulders. Even Legolas, your youngest prince, is willing and eager to serve this realm," Thranduil offered a subtle nod in the elfling's direction, causing the boy to sit up straighter and prove that he belonged among the rest of them. "And still, that is not enough in your eyes? I have asked you here so that we may find better ways to lift this kingdom back out of its darkest hour, not drive it further into shadow."

The frustration and disappointment that Legolas could see in his father's light-blue eyes made his heart sink. He knew that few others in the chamber knew their liege well enough to recognize those looks, for the king had perfected the mask he wore for his people. But it was all there for him to see as plain as day, and Legolas wanted nothing more than to take those expressions from his _Ada's_ eyes.

"_Aran nin?"_

Lumornel, the _elleth _from before the meeting, timidly stood from her seat across the chamber. Legolas could see that she was tightly wringing her cloak with shaking hands, shifting from foot to foot. The Elvenking dominated every room with his presence, cowing even the bravest of elves and she, it seemed, was not immune to his power.

"Please speak, Lumornel."

Legolas listened to the level, reassuring tone his father used. His calming voice washed over the chamber, seeming to ease the _elleth _enough that her hands stopped shaking so severely. Legolas could only hope to one-day master the kind of easy command his father effortlessly exuded with just his _voice _alone.

"On behalf of the Quartermaster's Guild, I'd like to request the assistance of Prince Thallion," she turned and faced the Avar, whose only response was a very slightly-raised brow, before returning her attention to the king. "He had some ideas that, while peculiar, might make our supplies last longer. We could then allocate more time to replenishing the warrior's provisions. At this point, any help he could offer would be welcome."

"If I may," Elhael stood once more, interrupting any reply the king could have formulated. "I would like to suggest that Prince Thallion take charge of _all_ trade negotiations, at least when he is not on active duty. His unorthodox ideas may be just what we need."

The silver-haired advisor winked at Thallion, earning an even higher brow-raise than Lumornel. Legolas wondered if every council session was so intense, despite his brothers always complaining of the contrary.

Thallion hadn't said a word, but the elfling could sense the tension in his posture from his seat beside the older elf. Hadn't Thallion earlier admitted to Legolas that he wasn't good with negotiations? And now, he would be expected to take charge of them all. It was a task their mother had mastered, and since her death it had been mostly handled by Elhael, who managed it the best he could.

Perhaps Legolas wasn't the only elf in the palace who doubted his own abilities.

"I move for a vote in favor of assigning Prince Thallion full command of the realm's trade."

This time, it was Calaeron who spoke. When he stood to address the council, he stared straight at his younger brother, hesitantly smiling at the shock that was shining in Thallion's eyes. They were wide with surprise, his brows raised nearly to his hairline. The fact that Thallion was continually being addressed by his title and not his acquired rank carried even more weight and gravity in the situation.

Legolas looked over at him, stomach tightening at the uncertainty he could read in his brother's posture. Even more uncharacteristic was the anger slowly building just beneath the normally-serene surface. His hands were gripping the ends of his armrests with a grasp that left his knuckles white and the muscles of his arms bunched with tension. The youngest prince wanted to reach over and grab the older elf's arm to offer his support, but remembered that he was told not to fidget or draw attention to himself and he had already fidgeted enough.

Faervere would have done it.

But alas, he was not Faervere. Or Calaeron. Or Thallion. He was Legolas, and he hadn't figured out just _who_ 'Legolas' was. Was he the type of elf who would ignore formality in favor of comforting those he loved?

He wasn't sure. All he knew was that he still wanted to do more for his family and for his kingdom. More than just sit back and watch as responsibility overwhelmed them.

Legolas found it difficult to focus on the rest of the session, turning his attention inward as he struggled with his own indecision. There _was_ more that he could do for the kingdom than he was doing now, but he would have to risk everything to do it. He would have to finish what Lanthir and Faervere started. He would go to _Imladris_.

Alone.

* * *

Once the session drew to a close, nearly two hours later, Legolas stood stiffly and tried to stretch his cramped limbs as subtly as possible. After coming to his own startling conclusion about what he must do, his attention had drifted in and out. He missed most of the final decisions, as well as their supporting discussions.

One thing he had definitely paid attention to was the vote over whether Thallion would handle trade. The vote had passed, to Thallion's obvious dismay.

Now that the session was over and the king had exited the chamber with his royal guard, they were free to move about the space as they wished. Other elves were standing and stretching, shaking hands or pulling each other into smaller side discussions. One laughed at what another said, and a few still looked sour over some slight or other. Quicker than a breath, Thallion made a beeline for Calaeron while Legolas weaved his way between taller elves, his lungs burning as he failed to keep up with the older elf's long strides.

"What was that?"

Thallion held Calaeron's arm tightly, the knuckles of his hand as white as they had been gripping the chair earlier. Calaeron had to lean slightly away just to regain some of his personal space, using his free shoulder to steer them apart from some of the other elves. Thallion's voice was low and dangerous, with a cold bite to it that made it unrecognizable to Legolas' ears. If the oldest brother was surprised by Thallion's anger, he did not show it, though Legolas felt a spike of fear at the dark-haired elf's tone.

"You had no right, Cal."

Their oldest brother tried to pull away from the younger's bruising grip, but found that he could not do so without drawing unwanted attention. He stared up into Thallion's face with a frigid look he normally reserved for the battlefield, meeting the rage-filled gaze directly in front of him.

"Let. Go."

Calaeron, too, had pitched his voice low, commanding the younger elf to release him. Legolas stood rooted in place, his mouth dry and his hands clammy, as he looked back and forth between two elves he barely recognized. The two oldest princes were behaving like two enemies on the battlefield, poised and ready to attack the other at a moment's notice. And still, more laughter rang through the air from the oblivious elves surrounding them.

A hand fell on Legolas' shoulder, sending a jolt through his body and he jumped, letting out a squeak of surprise.

"Perhaps you should speak in private while I escort your brother out?"

Elhael continued to grasp the elfling's shoulder in a light, non-constraining grip as his eyes danced between the two angry brothers. His body was strategically placed just barely between them, looking to an outsider like he simply wanted to join the conversation. But it was enough to take some of the heat from Calaeron's expression, breaking him out of whatever trance he fell into.

Thallion released his older brother's arm, not acknowledging Elhael but turning immediately and stalking away in a very feral, almost feline manner that set him apart from his Silvan and Sindarin kinsfolk. Calaeron spared an apologetic glance at both Elhael and Legolas, quickly and clumsily patting the elfling on the back in what he hoped was a comforting way, before hurriedly following after Thallion's retreating form.

Elhael then steered Legolas out of the chamber, moving so gracefully that he could have been strolling through a garden instead of diffusing a potentially nasty public fight. At first, nothing was said while Legolas followed the older elf, noticing that the silver-haired advisor walked with a limp before remembering that it was due to an old battle wound from long ago—before Elhael had been an advisor, he was a warrior in Thranduil's ranks.

Soon, though, Legolas stopped in his tracks.

"What just happened?"

He set his feet, squaring his stance and hoping he looked noble and demanding. He refused to be talked to like a child, as he felt he had earned the right to a mature discussion. Elhael would not be allowed to just pat him on the head and be on his merry way, not if Legolas had anything to say about it.

"Let us find somewhere to sit, my lord, and then I will explain the best way that I can."

Not expecting such easy acquiescence, Legolas merely nodded and followed the elf down a few more corridors before they found a quiet alcove with a small recess just large enough to sit in. He sat quickly, gripping the bottom of his tunic in both hands and worrying the hem of the fabric between his fingers.

"Now," the elf began, looking directly into Legolas' young face and offering him a slight smile. "I can see that you want answers and don't wish to be talked down to."

Legolas felt a sudden heat rush through his cheeks, his ears joining the rest of his face and matching what was sure to be a deep blush. He hadn't meant to be so obvious or so rude, but just adamant enough to get his point across. He needed to work on his own diplomatic face if he hoped to be anything like his brothers or his _Ada_.

"You will learn to control your expressions as you gain more experience," Elhael chuckled, smiling widely at the astonishment on Legolas' face. "I can read you like an open book, young one, but I'm glad that you are so willing to fight for what you know you are owed. You are very like your mother in that manner."

The elder's voice took on a softer tone, knowing he was bringing up a sensitive subject. Lanthir had been a dear friend to Elhael. There were times he swore he heard her voice in the council chambers, speaking up against whatever silly problem there was on any given day. He often pictured that little furrow between her brows that she thought she kept well-hidden whenever someone said something she thought to be particularly strange. That same little furrow had found its way onto Legolas' young face during portions of the disaster that was this last council session, warming Elhael's heart at the sight of it.

"I suspect you want to know what went on between your brothers and why Thallion was so angry?" Legolas nodded mutely. "I'm sure you know them better than you know anyone else in this palace, young prince. Perhaps even better than you know yourself? So, I'm confident in guessing that you understand how little faith Thallion has in his abilities as a leader."

Again, Legolas was nodding, searching for words but finding none possessing the appropriate amount of gravity for the situation.

"Both of your brothers have found themselves in positions they are not comfortable in, as you've noticed. They are under a great deal of stress, Legolas." A fact the elfling knew all too well. "They will work this out, don't you fret. They always do. Just be there for them and wait it out."

"Would it help if their burdens were lessened?"

Once Legolas had finally found his words, Elhael looked at him with a contemplative expression. He could see the wheels turning in Legolas' head. What did the elfling have in mind?

"In time," Elhael assured. "Their burdens will be, but they must continue to shoulder their duties until such a time arrives."

The advisor's words only seemed to further bolster Legolas' confidence that his idea to go to _Imladris_ was the right call. Just because his mother and brother had failed to survive their journey did not suddenly mean the help was no longer necessary.

If anything, they needed their neighbors to the west more now than ever before. He would have to be the one to bring the aid his family, and his kingdom, desperately needed. It was time he did his part.

But how Legolas would manage the journey alone, when twelve experienced warriors had perished along the same path, was something the elfling would have to consider carefully.

* * *

A heavy wooden door was all that muffled the raised voices coming from within the normally-silent study. Its current occupants were oblivious to the concern of the elves who passed by the door in hasty avoidance, sparing it an uneasy glance and giving it a wide berth as they hurried on their way.

Inside, the atmosphere was so tense it could be cut with a sword.

Calaeron had followed his brother from the very crowded council chambers to the privacy of Thallion's study, chasing him down to confront the problem head-on. It had been centuries since he had personally seen such anger in the Avar and he feared what damage it would do to the gentle soul that resided within the elf if it was not stopped swiftly. After all, Thallion had broken his own hand in a fit of rage after returning from the woods where their loved ones had perished.

When the crown prince barged into the study, ignoring the hefty slam of wood against stone, Thallion was nearly vibrating with fury. His hands shook and he paced like a caged animal, back and forth and back and forth. The wild look in his darkened gray eyes made him unrecognizable as the brother Calaeron had spent most of his life standing beside.

He was beyond anger. He was incensed.

"Thallion-"

"You. Had. No. Right."

The younger elf bit out each word, throwing them at his brother as if they could physically harm him. He fixed Calaeron with a glare so menacing that the older elf fought against the warning shiver crawling up his spine, trying not to shrink back from the fire in his eyes.

"Please, _Muindor,"_ Calaeron pleaded, raising his hands in a defensive gesture, hoping to calm his brother down enough to repair the damage his betrayal had done. He knew when he made the motion in the council session that Thallion wouldn't be pleased, but he never imagined he would be this angry at him.

"No!" Thallion roared, stalking to his desk and upending the large piece of furniture with one fell swoop, scattering the piles of papers and scrolls that had been so neatly stacked on top. "I never wanted this and you knew it! And still, you threw me to the dogs."

"I am so sorry, Thall."

Calaeron remained fixed to his spot, despite the mess that had practically been thrown at his feet. The burst of anger and destruction reminded him of the fits of despair that used to consume Thallion when he first came to their family. It was how he dealt with loss, the older prince reasoned, and who was he to stop the elf from taking his pain out on furniture? After all, it couldn't feel the damage he caused.

"I know you are angry with me," he continued cautiously. He observed the other as he stood over his ruined desk, chest heaving with ragged breaths and his hands still quaking. Calaeron at least seemed to finally have captured his attention. "But _Muindor nin_, I have watched you grow over the years into the prince you were always capable of becoming. I know you can handle this, Thall. You can."

"No."

Thallion seemed to deflate with the softly-uttered word, blinking in surprise when his long legs gave way beneath him and he sank to his knees on the floor. Finally, Calaeron moved from his spot and knelt down in front of the other elf among the strewn-about papers and busted pots of ink, gingerly placing his hands at the tops of both Thallion's quivering arms until he was confident they wouldn't be shrugged away.

"I know you can do this," he soothed, squeezing the arms of the elf who had long been his closest confidant. "We must forge a better kingdom for Legolas to grow in, Thall. You have seen how he longs to reach his majority. He needs us to show him the way, now more than ever."

Thallion's dark-haired head lowered in shame, but the blond pulled his brother forward into his embrace until his head rested atop Calaeron's shoulder instead. It had been many years since he had last found himself comforting _this_ brother instead of the youngest two, but the slight nod against his shoulder was like a balm on his own weary soul.

That he was able to offer comfort at all was a relief to Calaeron. Since the loss of their mother and younger brother, the crown prince often worried that he was closing himself off too much and losing the ability to empathize with others. That he was dissociating and retreating too far. He'd always been terrible at expressing his emotions, but this emotionless shell he was becoming frightened him more than he could ever admit.

Thallion was always the more emotional, compassionate one, the one they all turned to for support, and it made Calaeron feel as though he weren't as good a brother as him. But sometimes, the Avar was filled with so much emotion that he couldn't contain it all and it came bursting from him like a tidal wave. Getting through to Thallion and easing the storm brought hope to him again. Maybe he could still be a good leader, and more importantly—a good brother.

He wasn't sure how much time passed while he held tight to one of the strongest elves he had ever known, but he could sense the change in Thallion. His shoulders had relaxed, his hands were no longer clenched in tight fists, and his breathing had slowed to a more reasonable pace.

Calaeron stood and offered him a hand when he knew the younger prince was ready, praying to the _Valar_ that he had been granted forgiveness. He was pleased beyond reckoning when Thallion placed a broad palm atop his and used it to pull himself to his feet, accepting his assistance without complaint.

They walked out of the ruined study in silence, one never more than an arm's length away from the other. Throughout their lives, the two brothers had suffered through many arguments and raging fights. But once their anger fizzled out of existence, it never took them long to get back into stride with each other, quickly falling back into their easy companionship.

It was as though nothing happened.

Now that they were back on even footing, they were both more relaxed than they had been in weeks. It wasn't as though they were fooled into thinking that things were any better, but they were reassured in the knowledge that the other always had their back.

Now, they would just need to track down their concerned elfling and hope he would accept an apology from both of them.

* * *

After his revealing conversation with Elhael, Legolas left the advisor and made his way out to the training grounds in the hopes of releasing his pent-up frustrations. It was there that he ran into his two best friends instead.

Alarcien and Mitsion were very close to the youngest prince in age, making it easy for the trio to form a fast friendship.

It wore a sorrowful hole into his gut at the joy that erupted on his friends' faces at the mere sight of him. He had neglected them for too long. Abandoning his plans to train for a few hours, he decided he would rather spend time in the company of his friends. Legolas realized he hadn't spent much time with the older two in far too long, pulling back from everyone in favor of spending more time training.

They filled him in on their own training over the past two weeks since they'd seen him last, as they no longer trained together. The king had pulled Legolas from the beginner's archery classes and placed him in private study, until he would later rejoin his age-mates for swordsmanship lessons and eventually, novice training.

Alarcien had made strides in her own archery, while Mitsion despaired that he would never even be able to hit the broad side of a _Mûmakil._ Legolas relaxed into their company, laughing with them and overall enjoying their presence.

He had almost forgotten his potentially-lethal plan, and the exciting council session, and even the angry confrontation between his two older brothers.

Almost.

Every time he focused on something else, the niggling thoughts gnawed their way to the forefront of his mind.

He remembered three months ago, when word spread through the stronghold that the Elvenqueen herself would be traveling to _Imladris _with eleven other warriors—including Prince Faervere. A restless hope had filled the hearts and minds of the people. Even though there was the undercurrent of danger, it had been like a lifeline to the realm.

If they could just hold out until help arrived, then all would be well. No one had even wondered what form that 'help' would take. They were just so relieved at the prospect of being unburdened that they didn't even really care how.

The three eldest princes had sequestered themselves in Thallion's study and spent an entire evening mapping out the best routes and strategizing everything to the last detail. Their meticulous planning had been for naught, or so it seemed.

But what if the maps still existed?

If Legolas could get his hands on their plans, then he could follow them himself. Calaeron was one of the realm's greatest strategists, and with the help of Thallion and Faervere, their plans would have to have been nearly perfect.

It was only due to chance that the "Lost Twelve," as they were now branded, had been discovered by the band of orcs that took their lives.

There had been more than one path on those maps and as long as Legolas didn't follow _that _one, he couldn't bear to step foot anywhere near, then he should be safe. Well, as safe as an inexperienced elfling could be in _Arda's_ most dangerous forest.

He would just have to sneak into Thallion's study after nightfall and retrieve the plans.

An easy task, he tried to fool himself into thinking.

A small, gentle hand on his forearm brought his attention back to his friends. Mitsion's voice rose and fell with excited rambling, but Alarcien had a thoughtful look on her face. She was leaned away from the speaking _ellon _and had her head tilted towards the youngest prince, looking him over with a knowing gaze. She knew Legolas well enough that she could tell when he was internalizing, thinking so deeply that all else faded away. He could never fool her.

The fond smile that lit her eyes was as much a dismissal as it was a smile of acceptance. She could sense that he was planning something.

Legolas smiled back at her, standing and patting the back of her right hand and fighting not to chuckle at the confusion on Mitsion's face. Legolas was always leaving in the middle of his stories.

* * *

The palace was warmer at midday, which brought more energy to its occupants. Though it was still frigid and unpleasant, it was no longer bathed in the early dawn chill. Sunlight crept through the corridors, reaching warm fingers into previously-chilled rooms.

Legolas sat in the same dining chamber he and his brothers had spent the morning in, sampling meager bites of the tray of meats and cheeses that Nerciel had all but forced on him. She despaired that he was too thin, and had piled as much food onto the plate as she could fit.

It wasn't his lack of appetite that prevented him from eating, but the distance of his thoughts.

"I hope you plan on bigger bites, silly elfling."

Legolas hadn't even noticed his _Ada_ enter the room, much less walk across the entirety of the space while still wearing his heavy, swishing robes. He sat up straighter, observing his father closer. He tried to memorize every detail of the elegant Elvenking, from his magnificently glowing pale hair to his firm, yet impossibly gentle blue eyes. Legolas had not yet decided when he would embark on his journey, but his heart told him this would be the last time he would see his father before he left his home, and family, behind.

A heavy feeling settled in his chest, bringing a tightness to his throat. He wiped hurriedly at his eyes, swiping away traces of the tears Thranduil pretended not to notice.

Sensing his sorrow, but not really knowing the reason, his _Ada_ knelt before him and cupped both sides of his face in large, warm hands. At first, he said nothing. Legolas fought against more tears, not wanting to alarm his father and bring questions upon himself that he couldn't bear to answer.

The Elvenking smoothed down silken blond locks, tucking an errant strand behind a delicate ear.

"I was very proud of you today, _ion nin,_" he assured with a tender smile. "I was not sure I would be ready for the day when I would meet your gaze across from me in council, but it was a welcome sight."

To see Lanthir's eyes reflected in his beautiful, loving son's face had been enough to ease Thranduil through the more difficult parts of his day. But watching his youngest sitting tall and attentive among councilors and elders had filled him with a deep sense of pride. Legolas was a gentle, peaceful soul. Thranduil could see in him the longing to ease the pain and struggle of others. That fire of passion that lit his elfling's eyes would burn for ages to come. The flame to light their future, as Thallion once put it.

So like his mother, he was.

"Thank you, _Ada._"

Legolas did not say what for, and Thranduil did not ask. The king simply gathered his son into his arms, holding him tight in the hopes that he could convey the depth and ferocity of his love.

They finished the tray of food together, basking in each other's presence and enjoying the company of the other. It was these moments that Thranduil cherished the most. Even when all seemed hopeless and his tasks appeared insurmountable, a moment with one of his beloved sons was all he needed to set his day right.

* * *

**As always, thank you for reading this chapter, and I would love to hear what you think down in the reviews.**

**-FiTS**


	3. Chapter 3

The palace was always eerie in the dead of night, but even more so when one was afraid of being caught. When every shadow could be suspicious of his every move, ready to reach out and stop him in his self-appointed mission.

Legolas spent hours after night fell attempting to read books, arranging and rearranging his room, and organizing his belongings. Once he had deemed it late enough, he made his way down the cold, silent halls of the palace toward Thallion's hopefully-empty study. He had already come up with an excuse for being awake and roaming the halls should he be caught, especially if he were caught near the Avar's study.

Legolas hadn't seen Thallion since the council meeting, and so the idea that he was looking for him wouldn't be too far-fetched. So far, the elfling had only passed one guard in the halls, but since he had been out of bed every night for the past three months, it wasn't unusual for him to be there.

When he reached his brother's study, he carefully pressed a pointed ear against the cold of the wood and listened for any movement inside. He could hear the slight draft that always whispered through the halls, and the rustling of curtains. Only after he was sure that no other sound came from within did he open the door, wincing at the groaning of the wood in the silence of night.

Moonlight illuminated the thankfully-empty room. His eyes widened and he took in a sharp breath.

Thallion had always been meticulous about his work, carefully arranging and organizing his things by order of importance. There were always neat little stacks of paper, and carefully arranged piles of scrolls. Even his books were placed on their shelves just so.

But tonight, Thallion's beautiful oak desk was on its side, completely bereft of its orderly piles. Everything was everywhere. It looked like a storm had torn through the room. This must have been the aftermath of the heated moment in the council chambers, Legolas realized.

The elfling gingerly stepped across the strewn-about papers, wincing every time he crushed something beneath his feet. He didn't even know what he was looking for in the first place, but he would have had a better chance at finding it before Thallion had all but razed the room.

He knelt down and began sifting through the scattered piles, carefully examining anything that might look like a map.

Legolas was intrigued by some of what he found, especially the immaculately-kept notes written in the Avar's elegant script. Everything was detailed, and there were summaries beside every last section. Scouting reports, novice evaluations, even land surveys and crop yields. They were all perfect, and Legolas wished he could have seen what the desk looked like _before_ it was upended.

He would have to one day ask his brother how he kept track of everything, and how he made even something as simple as a supply inventory so detailed and thoroughly documented.

Finally, he saw the corner of what had to be the map. Picking it up and unrolling it, he found himself suddenly fighting to swallow around the tightness in his throat.

Large sections were covered in Faervere's messy, hurried scrawl. His notations were as unique as he was, and Legolas had to chuckle at words like _smelly orc hole,_ and _sticky ick-land._ He shook his head at his brother's humor, even in a serious situation.

That was Faervere. He could turn anything into a positive. If he were there right now, he would have made some kind of comment about how Thallion would have to take a break from work because he couldn't find his desk.

It really was an amazing map.

Calaeron's handiwork was all over it, and Legolas marveled at the details. He had marked not just several different paths, but he had also marked landmarks to associate with them, and various potential vantage points should they become ambushed.

Thallion had marked a few different game trails and smaller streams that would be better hidden from view, as well as locations that could be used for shelter or retreat in an emergency.

And Faervere had marked known spider's nests, hence _'sticky ick-land,' _and various sink holes to avoid. Beside one, he had simply written _'ouch.' _His superior sketching talents, a hobby he hadn't spent nearly enough time with, made those obstacles all the more amusing to see.

All three brothers had drawn red x's over locations where orc hoards were known to roam most often. And each brother had contributed the locations of long-abandoned Talans. They had thought of everything, it seemed. It really was a work of beauty, but Legolas found himself wondering how they had gotten it back after the battle.

Who had borne it to their death?

Shaking away the macabre thought, the elfling rolled the map back up, being sure to avoid any creases or harsh movement, and eased it into the folds of his tunic. He would treat it with care, for it was the only trace of Faervere's writing, and drawing, he knew of. Sure, there were probably dozens in his brother's own study or in his sleeping chambers, but he and his brothers hadn't possessed the heart to disturb either location. To his knowledge, none of them had stepped foot inside.

Stepping around the rest of Thallion's papers, Legolas stalked back to the door. He stuck his head into the hall, ensuring he wasn't being observed, and made his way back to his chambers with a heavy heart and a busy mind. He looked over his shoulder with every few steps, flinching at small noises around every corner. It felt as though he were being watched, now that he had what he had been looking for. But he ignored the hairs rising on his neck and laughed quietly at himself.

By the time he made it back to his own rooms, his hands were shaking and his stomach was in knots. The suspense alone had been enough to make him very uneasy. But now that he had hidden the scroll beneath his bed for safe-keeping, the guilt started to settle into his gut.

It wasn't even the thought of getting caught that was bothering Legolas. It was the thought of _not _getting caught. If he did everything right and was successful in sneaking out of the palace, what would happen to his family?

Once they discovered that he was missing, the entire realm would be in an uproar. They would tear through the lands in search of him, putting themselves in danger in the process. But he couldn't stop now, not when he had come so far!

Despite everything that could go wrong, what was more important to Legolas was all of the things that could go right.

His mother had a reason she volunteered to risk her life for the kingdom. She knew, deep in her heart, that they needed help. If they could push back the shadow, even temporarily, it would give them the respite they needed to recover their strength.

If the council session had taught Legolas anything, it was that Mirkwood was running on empty. What they needed most was time. Time to breathe, to rest, and to regroup. They were taking hits left and right without the ability to stand back up between each one.

Lord Elrond could offer them that. If the stories his parents told about the elves of _Imladris_ were true, then he knew they wouldn't hesitate to come to their aid.

The elfling tried to quiet his mind enough to sleep, but found himself tossing and turning. It was like the stolen map was shouting from beneath his bed, begging someone to find it and get Legolas into trouble. He couldn't find a comfortable position no matter what he did, so he threw his covers off in an irritated huff and stalked across the chamber.

Entering the halls yet again, he dragged his feet to the nearest source of comfort: Calaeron.

Although it was late, the eldest prince was a light sleeper and had told Legolas more than once to simply wake him if he couldn't sleep. The guilt Legolas felt was wearing a hot, uncomfortable hole into his stomach the more it rested on his mind.

And even though he knew Calaeron would be upset once Legolas left, he didn't regret knocking on the oldest brother's door.

* * *

The crown prince rubbed at his temples again, squinting in even the soft light of his room.

It had been a wearying, dizzying day filled with many twists and turns that Calaeron would have preferred not to encounter.

After having no success in searching for Legolas, both Calaeron and Thallion had instead made their way to the training fields. The oldest brothers had a lot of pent-up tension that they needed to work out. It had been many years since they had sparred together, but it didn't take long to get back into the easy rhythm they had perfected over centuries of fighting side-by-side on the battlefield. With every clash of their swords, the stress seemed to chip away from their shoulders. It was still there, as it would always be, but it had lessened greatly.

They drew a quick crowd with their skill and their dance-like grace.

Thallion had always been a powerful swordsman, and he used his more substantial height and size to his advantage. His reach was longer than Calaeron's, as was the overall force he put behind each sword-stroke. He was bigger and stronger than the eldest Thranduilion could ever be.

But Calaeron was quicker.

The crown prince fought with an elegance that few had mastered. Where Thallion was sturdy and almost brutal in his style, Calaeron was swift and nimble as he seemed to glide around the grounds. His lithe frame made him harder to catch and even more difficult to predict.

They were evenly matched, but the win went to Calaeron. Thallion seemed even happier to lose to his brother than he would have been had he achieved the victory himself.

When their match ended, they parted ways for the evening.

Now in his own bedchambers, Calaeron begged for sleep to come. A lot weighed on his mind; above all was Legolas. The elfling had greatly surprised him throughout the day. At first, he was struck with a heavy sense of unease at the thought of Legolas being included in the day's proceedings. But he had been immensely proud of the way the youngest prince had handled himself. He had sat beside Thallion and exuded an aura of grace and calm that Calaeron didn't know the child possessed.

When a shy knock at the door interrupted his thoughts, Calaeron found himself sending a flash of thanks to the _Valar. _He desperately needed a distraction.

"Hello, little one."

Calaeron should have recognized that knock immediately, and he smiled gently at the tired young elfling yawning in his doorway. Legolas stood there in his bedclothes, his hair slightly mussed from tossing and turning—just as Calaeron had been.

"Can I come in?"

Opening the door wider, the eldest prince invited the youngest into his chambers. While Calaeron had wanted nothing but to get away from Legolas and his curiosity that morning, he now craved the elfling's company.

He wanted to get to know the mysterious, composed young elf he had caught glimpses of earlier that day. Legolas had certainly been distracted for much of the council session, but the moments when the elfling gave every ounce of his attention were what showed Calaeron the true potential in the young prince.

"I must apologize, Legolas."

As the elf sat on the corner of Calaeron's bed, he fixed his brother with a puzzled look.

"I am sorry that Thallion and I frightened you today," he continued, settling himself next to Legolas on the bed. "Our brother doubts himself, and he sometimes needs an extra push. But I fear I pushed him too far today."

"Is he okay?" Legolas looked up into Calaeron's worn face, taking in the hard angles of his cheekbones and the stress lines that had settled around his eyes. Calaeron looked the most like their father, it seemed even more so in his weariness.

"He was so angry."

Calaeron wrapped an arm around his brother, squeezing gently.

"Yes, _Penneth,_ he is okay," he smiled reassuringly. "We worked it out, I assure you. We even had a little sparring session on the grounds afterward."

Legolas' dark-blue eyes lit up and he searched Calaeron's face for a moment before realizing he had told the truth. The youngest prince had never seen his oldest brothers spar and he was now sorry he had missed it.

"Truly?"

"Indeed, we did."

"And who won?"

Legolas couldn't imagine who would have won and he had a hard time picturing it in his mind. They were both such strong elves, and he believed them to be equally unconquerable, as any little brother would.

"It was a very near thing; we were both so very close to losing. He knocked me off my feet with one powerful strike, but just as he was about to claim me," Calaeron smiled and then held a breath, building up the suspense for his little brother. "I surprised him and just barely took the victory today."

Legolas laughed at the dramatic tone that overtook his eldest brother's voice, playfully shoving him in the chest and laughing even harder as the larger elf lost his balance and nearly fell from the warm bed.

* * *

With a new day came new challenges for Prince Legolas. He decided that this would be the day he would set out. If he didn't do it today, then he wouldn't have the courage to leave.

He had given himself very little time to prepare.

As soon as he woke, he ran back to his chambers and gathered all of his sturdiest clothing. He carefully folded spare tunics, breeches, and other garments in the smallest squares he could make them. He would also need a bag to pack everything in, which he did not have. Legolas would need food, clothing, and weapons, too. Acquiring everything he required for his travels in one day would be a feat in itself, not to mention making sure to avoid all notice.

The bag, he decided, would come from Faervere's room. He may even be lucky enough to find other things without being caught, since there were none who dared enter the lost prince's bedchambers.

He decided he would go there first.

Faervere's rooms were not far from his own, but he had to tell himself to act natural as he passed a few servants who were readying the palace for the day.

Arriving there, he hesitated at the door. Of all the doors in the palace, he was wariest of this one. It had once been home to one of the most joyous, energetic elves in this part of Middle Earth—perhaps in allof _Arda_. But now, it was devoid of all joy and life.

Gripping the cold door handle, Legolas took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

It still smelled like Faervere, Legolas noted. Like horses and straw and sunshine all mixed together.

Dust coated most of the furniture, but everything was as his brother had left it. There were books strewn all over, some of which belonged to Thallion and were never returned. Piles of half-finished sketches littered the floor. A worn traveling cloak hung over the back of a well-used armchair, and one of Faervere's knives still sat beside its whetstone on the small desk.

Not yet daring to touch much of anything, Legolas gently opened the wardrobe in search of a bag. There, at the bottom, was the perfect one. He had seen it slung over Faervere's shoulder many times; he picked it up with careful fingers and held it to his chest, clutching the soft fabric reverently.

Setting it on the unmade bed, Legolas took the traveling cloak and the elegant knife, bundling them into the bag along with the whetstone. Not wanting to disturb anything else, he took one last glance around the room.

Legolas could feel his brother's presence resting in the warm, blue tones of the fabrics and the hurried, messy disorder of the room. It was a haphazard space, but it suited Faervere well.

He gently closed the door behind him, again looking around for anyone who might see him. For the moment, there was no one in the hall. Legolas slung the bag over his shoulder, striding back toward his chamber before changing his mind and heading toward the food stores attached to the kitchens.

There shouldn't be many elves _in _the stores, save for the few who may walk in and out to grab food for the kitchens.

He only passed one serving girl just outside the storage, but he gave her a soft smile to detract from his motives. She didn't seem to find anything out of place and shyly smiled back at him before continuing on her way.

Legolas made quick work of his gathering, deciding only to grab what could last long amounts of time. Dried fruits and meats, nuts, and waybread were top of the list. He focused on the waybread, as he knew it could sustain the longest, and generously stuffed his pack, leaving just enough room for a few extra supplies.

The journey back to his chambers was less easy when he ran into Limbon.

"Heading somewhere, young prince?"

The elfling found himself rooted to the spot, fighting against a suddenly-dry mouth and sweating palms. He was surely caught now, he knew it!

"Uh," he hesitated, shifting his feet and avoiding eye contact. "I am taking afternoon meal in the gardens with Alarcien and Mitsion. I was assigned the food; they were assigned the blankets."

It was as good a story as any, but Limbon narrowed his eyes in concern over the sudden scrambling of words. The elfling was flustered in ways the palace guard had never seen, and it raised alarm bells in the back of his mind. He lifted his hands, as though unsure whether he should grab the bag from Legolas or not, before second guessing himself and aborting the action.

"Do make sure they bring enough," he warned, still watching Legolas closely. "It is terribly cold today, _hir nin._"

"_Hannon le,_ Limbon," Legolas replied coolly, hoping his voice wasn't shaking too much.

He then hurried away from the now-suspicious guard, hoping the older elf wouldn't report Legolas' behavior to any of his family.

It would be easiest to go to the armory just before he left, Legolas decided, so he went back to his chambers to hide his supplies until nightfall. They wouldn't be discovered beneath his bed. He would just grab his pack, raid the armory for the last of his provisions, and disappear into the forest.

All without anyone noticing.

* * *

Evading the attention of his family throughout the day had been easier than Legolas expected. Other than the morning hours, he had barely seen any of them. Calaeron was meeting with war ministers to plan an incursion to one of the eastern outposts, the Elvenking was holding petitions in the throne room, and Thallion was sitting through his first planning session with Elhael.

Much as Legolas wanted to track them all down and find subtle ways to say goodbye, he knew they would be suspicious of his behavior almost immediately. It was best he left things the way that they were.

Time moved quicker than he expected, and he set his eyes on his final goal.

The armory was heavily guarded throughout the day, save for the two guard changes in the morning and in the evening. There was just a large enough window of time that he could slip in and out unnoticed—he would have to mention that weakness to the king when he came back.

Legolas shifted from foot to foot, carefully hidden in an alcove just beyond the entrance to the armory. He had settled himself there nearly an hour earlier, as he wasn't entirely sure when the guard changed.

His pack was ready, though his nerves were not. This was his last opportunity to flee the palace and seek aid for his people, and he knew he only had one chance to do it right.

The blond-haired elf settled against the cold stone wall on the floor of the alcove, resting his pack in his lap in front of him. Legolas was tempted to pull out the map to study it again, but there wasn't enough lighting in his hiding space.

Finally, just as the elfling's head was just beginning to sleepily tip forward, the moment he was waiting for had arrived. The current guard left his post with a loud yawn, leaving the door to the armory unguarded at last.

Once he was sure the guard was out of sight, Legolas ran to the heavy door and dragged it open.

He would have stayed in the armory for days, if he could have. There were so many finely-crafted weapons, although he could tell from the numerous empty spaces that there should have been so much more.

Bows of the finest design lined one wall, and Legolas made a beeline for them. He would have taken every single one if he'd had the space to carry them.

Finally, though, he chose a smaller wooden bow that was adorned with elegantly-carved vines. He carefully secured it over his shoulder, while gathering two or three extra bowstrings and stowing them into his pack.

He knew he couldn't take much longer to select his wares, so he grabbed the nearest quiver and stuffed it with arrows.

Feeling like time was moving entirely too fast, Legolas hastily grabbed a few smaller daggers and ran back out of the armory as though dogs nipped at his heels.

Thankfully, the relieving guard hadn't yet arrived.

Legolas dropped the last of his acquisitions into his pack and hurried to the nearest exit just outside the armory, frantically sealing the bag and slipping it over his shoulder as he all but ran. His heart was in his throat at the sight of the forest edge, and he could hear his pulse slamming in his ears.

He thought he had finally made it, until a hand closed around his arm and forced his heart to a frightened stop.

"Where are you going, Legolas?"

Alarcien stood there, fear written across her moonlit features, waiting for an answer she did not wish to hear. Her dark blond hair was coming loose from her braid—she still had not mastered the art of plaiting it—and her lip quivered.

"Please," was all Legolas could muster.

"No, Legolas." She shook her head. "No. You cannot go, I beg you."

"I must do this, Ala." His voice shook, but he forced it to level out with one quick breath. "I have to do it. For _Ada,_ for Cal and Thall. For Mitsion. For you."

"I won't let you."

Alarcien squared her shoulders, placing herself in his path as though he could not move around her. Pain settled into her features, as she already knew it would do no good. Tears lit her eyes, piercing Legolas' heart with a cold, sorrowful blade. He did not want to part with her like this.

Legolas gathered what strength he had left, pouring it into his voice and standing as tall as he could. Never before had he used this tone, but he knew it was his final option.

"As your prince, I order you to move," tears fell from his dark-blue eyes, mirroring the ones that were sliding down her face. "Speak nothing of this to anyone, Alarcien." He then softened his tone, trying to ease her fear. "I must do this."

He had never used his position against his friends and it now felt like a cold, heartless betrayal to use her own loyalty against her. She had to follow his orders or face treason, and Legolas knew it. They both did.

Alarcien simply dropped to her knees, bowing her head and letting the tears fall to the forest floor.

Legolas joined her, placing one hand on her shoulder and lifting her head with the other.

"I will return, _mellon nin,_" he whispered, pulling her into a fierce hug.

They could have stayed that way for hours, but Legolas finally gathered the strength to pull away and stand. Without looking back, he strode to the edge of the forest and slipped inside, letting the darkness of the trees swallow him. He could do this, for Faervere and _Naneth._

May the _Valar_ be with him.

_END PART I_

* * *

**Stay tuned for Part II, beginning in Chapter 4.  
-FiTS**


	4. Chapter 4

**I just want to thank everyone who has read and reviewed so far! As a writer, I'm overly critical of my own work, so feedback is so dearly appreciated. I just want to take one moment and thank one particular person. Earthdragon, who reviewed my story "The Flame to Light the Way," reviewed as a guest, therefore I couldn't take the time to say thank you for pushing me forward. You said you'd hoped there was another story in the series and that if you wished harder, there would be. I so badly wanted to tell you that YES, there is! And so with that, here is chapter four!**

* * *

He had done it. By the _Valar _and all the gods, he had done it and he could scarcely believe it. His heart pounded furiously in his chest and his entire body ached for him to turn around and take one last look at his home. To take it all in just once more, to breathe in the familiar sight just one more time.

_No turning back,_ he told himself while viciously shaking the urge out of his arms and legs with determined vigor. Legolas knew that if he turned around for even a split second, he would be running back home as fast as his legs could carry him. Faster, even.

Once he had taken his fill of frigid air into his lungs, his eyes hungrily devoured the forest around him. There was more to see than his eyes could ever focus on, but he wanted to see _more_. He laughed once, the chiming sound of it like drops of water in a bubbling, dancing stream. The forest was beautiful, even bathed in starlight as it was. Oh, what a sight it would be in the light!

Looking at the nearest tree, Legolas hopped over its roots and laid both hands against rough bark. He wanted to feel and hear and see and _taste _every single thing that lived and grew in the forest! Legolas wanted every sense to be overwhelmed with life, pulsating with the very beat that drove _Arda_. He wanted to sing with her and plunge himself into the very nature around him.

"_Ah," _the tree sighed weakly. _"The little Greenleaf has come at last."_

"_Yes, _mellon_," _Legolas gave the tree a subdued smile, suddenly saddened by the feebleness of the tree's voice. His mirth quickly diminished and fizzled out of existence. In his lifetime, the trees had never been particularly lively. Although, he still remembered the enigmatic Old Oak his _Nana_ had conversed with on his first, and last, trip into the forest. _"I need your help, my friend."_

"_Yes,"_ bare tree limbs rustled in anticipation. _"What does the Greenleaf require?"_

"_The princes—my brothers," _Legolas began, whispering as though he were already caught. _"They will search for me, but they cannot know where I have gone. I am leaving to save the forest, _Mellon,_ and they cannot find me. I must not be stopped."_

The tree almost seemed to sway in thought, weighing the pros and cons of complying with his request. He could not accomplish this without their agreement. Simply put, his brothers were the best trackers in all of Mirkwood—there was no way they would not find him, for it was just a matter of time. Only with the cooperation of the trees might he stand a chance.

"_The wood misses the elf, Greenleaf," _the tree whispered reverently. _"Our branches will hide you and they will not find you."_

Legolas kept his hands on the worn bark for a few moments longer in a gesture of thanks for their offer to help. They wanted the darkness stopped as much as he did. They wanted to stretch their limbs to the sky and sing the songs of nature once more, to weave themselves back into the great song of their land.

The young elf took one more deep breath, removing his hands from the tree and taking his first step out into the world ahead. He just hoped he could keep his feet.

* * *

Thallion shifted, setting his book down and absently rubbing his accursed, freezing hands together. He sat in his armchair by the dying fire, with a book that he hadn't really been reading for hours. The roaring fire he lit earlier had dwindled to a weak crackle, now made primarily of embers and tiny flickers of weakened light. The unforgiving wind was howling just outside his window, adding an eerie note to the air.

Legolas hadn't come to him this night. Although that wasn't unusual, something wasn't quite sitting right with the Avar. And he had never really been able to find it in himself to ignore a bad feeling when it gnawed at him.

And this one bit and chewed at every thought.

The oppressive silence of his room weighed heavily on him and made his ears ring with the deafening lack of all other sound. Before he could change his mind, Thallion rose and left the sad fire behind, while his book lay abandoned on the seat of his chair.

With long, purposeful strides, the elf arrived at Calaeron's chambers in just a few minutes. All of the royal quarters were located within close reach of each other, which had served the brothers well for many years. Particularly Faervere, who especially took advantage of their proximity for any mischief he could cause at all hours of the day. Calaeron's chambers were just within sight of the Elvenking's and only a few turns away from Thallion's.

He didn't have to wait long after knocking before the door swung open, revealing an equally-uneasy Calaeron. The crown prince's brows were drawn in tense lines, his eyes searching the hall behind Thallion for the elfling who clearly hadn't sought out the oldest brother either.

"Is he with _Adar?_" Calaeron suggested without prodding, already pulling on a robe and preparing to join Thallion in the search for Legolas. When it came to their elfling, no amount of concern was out of the ordinary. Both brothers felt a hard knot of anxiety tying itself to their stomachs, joining both of them together in their disquiet.

They glanced at the smooth wood of their father's door, momentarily questioning whether they should disturb the king. He was a busy elf with little time to himself—who were they to disrupt what rest he could find? And what if Legolas had ended up there, seeking comfort from his _Ada _in the dead of night?

What if he hadn't?

"We check Legolas' chambers first, just to be sure," Calaeron reasoned. "No sense in waking the king just yet."

The elfling's rooms were farther down the hall, nestled between Calaeron and Faervere's, which had been a prime location as far as Legolas was concerned. It couldn't feel like a greater distance to the oldest princes, who had nothing but the very worst on their minds. Their strides matched in intensity, barreling toward their chosen location quicker than a breath on the wind.

Thallion chose not to knock as he swung open the door, leaned his head into the elfling's room, and eyed the woefully-empty bed with a sinking stomach. Seeing that the child was not in the room, he opened the door fully and stepped over the threshold.

The Avar's face was hit with a stiff draft as he eyed the empty hearth and dark, unlit corners. But what caught Thallion's eye most was the lack of clothing on the floor.

Legolas was growing very much like Faervere in his living habits. Their fun-loving Faervere had always been in a slight state of disarray, seemingly breezing into and out of rooms on a whim. He had always left clothing and books and all kinds of odds and ends scattered everywhere, until every room looked just as whimsical as he was. Legolas, it seemed, was taking after him in that respect more and more as each day passed.

But the elfling's room was devoid of all whimsy and disorder.

The two elves merely had to share one intense look before nodding in silent agreement. Calaeron closed Legolas' door quietly behind them and they walked with a few more short, determined strides to the Elvenking's chambers. Taking a hurried breath, the blond prince knocked, glancing one last time at Thallion's pale face in the dim lighting of the hall, the younger's mouth drawn into a pursed line. Calaeron hoped his own face did not reflect the same lack of composure, adjusting his posture in an attempt to appear less concerned.

The Elvenking was still clothed in his day-robes, and the barely-noticeable ink smudges on his long fingers showed that he hadn't yet been to bed. Legolas was not with Thranduil, that much the brothers could be certain.

"To what do I owe this visit?"

Though the king's voice was soft and level, his war-sharpened eyes did not miss the lines of tension wrapping his eldest sons in a firm grasp, nor the worried frowns that overtook their faces. It took a great deal to shake the calm that his princes had spent centuries perfecting. But it took only three words to shake Thranduil's world apart at its core.

"Legolas is missing."

* * *

Even wrapped in Faervere's much-larger traveling cloak, Legolas fought against a vicious shiver that tore through his small body. The wind had picked up and began rustling the trees and leaves around him, only adding to the sense of urgency that plagued the air.

The grueling pace he set for himself had made sense when he started, as it ensured that Legolas would be a greater distance from the stronghold by the time anyone noticed he was missing. But now that he was a few hours away, his feet ached and his hands smarted and he wanted nothing more than to just sit down and take a breath.

It was more difficult than he imagined, hiking through unknown territory with little to guide himself other than a map and pure determination. He was no fool. Legolas knew he had no experience in the forest. He had not learned to read the forest floor, or to sense waiting danger. He could not tell the difference between a safe foothold and one that would send him tumbling into a sinkhole, never to be seen again.

But he did know the smell of orcs, and he knew what a spider's nest looked like. And that, he figured, was a start.

What he hadn't been prepared for was the sense of loneliness that was already creeping up his legs and into his heart. Legolas hadn't even made it through his first night, and he already missed home. He missed his friends, and his soft bed, and his warm brothers. Oh, how he missed his brothers.

He could still turn around. Perhaps they hadn't noticed he was gone, perhaps he could even just claim he had been roaming the halls in a sleepless walk to try to tire himself out. He would find Alarcien and tell her it had all been a horrible joke and to never speak of it again. They would laugh and she would forgive him, and nothing more would ever be said of it.

But that was not what Faervere would have done.

He would have laughed and dove even further into the forest, daring any to catch him if they could. The impish elf would have made quite the game of it, leaving clues to throw his brothers off and giggling all the more when they stood there scratching their heads in confusion at the puzzle he made of it.

His _Nana_ would not have turned back, either.

After all, it had been _her _idea to leave in the first place. While she had been an eternally-gentle soul, there was a spark of fire that raged just beneath the surface. The beautiful Silvan had been as untamable as the waterfalls for which she was named. Lanthir would have pushed on, using her cunning and indomitable wit to accomplish her task.

Legolas had to learn to be cunning. To stoke the fire his mother had passed on. But he would never forget to look for the joy in his journey, for he would encounter so much more than he had ever seen in his young life. And he would, with luck, partake in the company of creatures he had yet to imagine.

He just had to _get there_ first.

In the meantime, he needed to find a safe place to rest for the night. Now that some of the urgency faded, a voice at the back of his mind warned him of the dangers of this forest in the dark. It had been safe to leave once night fell while he was still in the palace, but he was not in the palace anymore. And the forest was far less forgiving.

To the untrained eye, every part of the forest looked the same. Every tree could be the same tree one passed earlier in their travels. Every rock looked identical. But Legolas was still an elf, and he had a natural connection to the forest that other creatures did not. Even untrained as he was, he had instincts that he hoped would help guide him on his journey.

Kneeling down, Legolas gently wrapped numb fingers around tree roots, seeking direction. He had a general idea of where to go and had even picked out a star in the sky by which to follow. If he kept it in his sights, he knew he was going the right way, at least until he reached the High Pass.

But the star could not tell him where to sleep.

The roots in his hands giggled and whispered childishly, pleased at the contact with an elf. But Legolas listened closely, waiting for them to get over their excitement.

"_Climb, climb, climb!"_

One set of roots laughed, while another whispered back.

"_In the sky; sleep high, high, high!"_

Legolas hesitated. These trees were so much older than he, which meant they were so much _taller._ He had climbed the trees on the training grounds, but they were nowhere near the age of the ones before him. They were children compared to the ancient, wise structures that now surrounded him.

"_Up, up! Climb high, be merry and fly!"_

Releasing the laughing roots, he brushed his hands off on his tunic and stood back up. Legolas shook his head in wonder—sleeping in a tree! What next?

He moved forward and settled a small foot at the base of the nearest, reaching above his head and gripping just below the lowest branch. Before he could even wish the branch were easier to reach, it lowered itself to his hand.

With the tree's welcome assistance, Legolas made it several feet off the ground. He wanted to be high enough up that enemies could not find him, but low enough that a fall could not kill him. Comforting thoughts, those were.

The tree had even been generous enough to arrange its limbs in such a way that it created a fork beneath the elfling's body, gently encasing him in reassuring wood and easing some of his fears of falling. He would be able to stretch out a little without the risk of rolling away and dropping to his death. Or to a few broken bones.

Wrapping Faervere's cloak tighter around himself and leaning against his pack, he let out a yawn and studied the sky. Were his family studying the same stars, unaware of his absence? Or were they already tearing the palace apart, completely oblivious to the beauty of the nature around them?

Those were the thoughts rolling through his mind as he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Morning had not yet arrived over the palace, and yet nearly every inhabitant was wide awake. Word of the princeling's disappearance spread like wildfire as pages and servants were roused from their sleep. Ministers and scribes and even the occasional cook were pulled from their beds and assigned an area to look. All but the most necessary guards were removed from their posts and a palace-wide search was implemented, to no avail.

There was no sign of Legolas. There was, however, one very nervous guard who felt he knew more than he had any right to. Who felt, perhaps, that he may be responsible for the elfling's disappearance and therefore had a duty to report his findings.

Limbon paced before the king's private offices, awaiting an audience with the Elvenking he had barely spoken more than a few clear words to in the last several years. And now, he expected himself to remain articulate enough not to stumble over his own foolish mouth?

"Enter."

The kitchen sentry shared a nervous look with the unamused royal guard who gestured him into the room, and he blanched further before he forced himself to step inside.

The king was seated at his desk, surrounded by several ministers and advisors, as well as a few members of his royal guard. His attention was divided in many different directions as elves talked over themselves in an effort to be heard and understood by their liege. Maps were unfurled, reports read off, and all manner of tasks were recounted. The room was abuzz with activity, looking as near to a war council as Limbon could imagine in his loftiest fantasies.

"Speak," the Elvenking ordered, leaving no room for explanation or frivolity. It was now or never and he had little time to be trifled with. This was not a rousing chat outside the dining halls after Dorwinion and a hearty feast.

"_Hir nin," _Limbon swallowed, forcing a breath around his suddenly dry mouth. "I may have seen the young prince earlier last evening."

Ice-blue eyes burned through Limbon, causing him to shiver despite the stuffy atmosphere of the busy room. He now understood the phrase, 'if looks could kill' and wanted nothing more than to have that murderous gaze diverted from him.

"May have?"

The watchman realized only too late that his choice of words was very poor, and so he swallowed once more and inwardly chastised himself for his stupidity. The Elvenking's tone itself could slice through even the strongest of warriors, let alone a lowly palace guard who found himself in over his head.

"I-I-I did, _aran nin,"_ he wrung his hands together, but stopped once the king leveled him with another burning glare. "He was coming from the food stores, he had a pack in his hands. He-he claimed to be picnicking with his friends."

"In this weather?"

It was Elhael, one of the royal advisors, who spoke this time. The silver-haired advisor straightened up from where he was gesturing to a sector on one of the many maps poured across the king's desk. His dark blue eyes flashed with outrage and impatience as he eyed the uneasy young elf cowering before the king.

"You did not think to question why children would take their meals _outside_ in the early stages of winter? When snow has fallen and ice clings to every surface, did you not think it was strange that they would be so inclined?"

Those who knew the soft-spoken advisor were stunned at the heat in his tone, so strong it could melt the very ice he described, but Limbon had no experience to tell him how unusual it was that the elder was so furious.

"I did not think-"

"Get out of my sight before I decide to show you what it means to be truly senseless, you sniveling simpleton!"

Limbon all but flew from the room, while Elhael vibrated with the colossal force of his anger. Even Thranduil was surprised—and dare he think, _impressed_—by the level of emotion his old friend displayed. Here was a glimpse of the warrior within the diplomat, released for but a moment after ages of suppression and cool negotiation.

"Calm, _mellon,_" the Elvenking warned, raising both hands in a reassuring gesture. "We will get no closer to finding Legolas if we lose our heads."

Elhael nodded, still breathing heavily. "What happened to the days of peace, Thranduil?"

"I wish I knew," the wearied king sighed.

* * *

Two young elves sat frozen in their chairs, wide eyes glued to the intimidating royals who stood before them. The sun had barely peeked over the horizon when both Alarcien and Mitsion had been summoned, with little gentleness or consideration, to the study of none other than the crown prince himself. It was a room they had not ever stepped foot in before and were now suddenly wishing they never had the chance to view it.

While Mitsion looked around the room with fear pooling in his dark eyes, Alarcien tried to make herself appear as calm and collected as possible. She hadn't slept a wink since she was ordered into silence by Legolas, but she would be damned if she'd show it. She would do her prince—her best friend—proud.

Through the years of friendship with Legolas, the two young elves had surprisingly few interactions with the eldest royals of their kingdom. Alarcien and Mitsion had even fewer exchanges with the Elvenking himself, and both found their hearts pleading to the _Valar_ that HE would not show up, also.

"Well?" Prince Calaeron was the first to speak, prowling in front of the terrified elflings as though he were a predator and they were his prey. His presence dominated the room in ways they thought only the king was capable of —how wrong they were. "What have you to say for yourselves?"

Thallion merely stood silently in the background, leaning against Calaeron's desk with a pensive look on his pale face. His muscled arms were crossed over his broad chest. Dark gray eyes studied the faces and body language of the two children very carefully, looking for any tells that may speak to their involvement or of any signs that they may be hiding the answers the princes were looking for. Alarcien's eyes met his briefly and she immediately looked away, petrified that he would see right through her. That he could read her every thought with just one look.

She honestly wasn't sure who to be more afraid of.

"M-my lord," Mitsion quivered, his willowy arms shaking atop the arm rests he was gripping tightly enough to snap, were he any stronger. Beads of sweat had already collected at the boy's temples, threatening to slide down his face in irritating streaks. "We don't know what you mean."

"Don't know?" Calaeron snapped, causing both to flinch at the whip-like tone of his voice. They had always been intimidated by the crown prince who so resembled their illustrious king, and now was no exception to the rule. He was channeling the king's wrath so much that they almost hoped the king himself _would_ arrive only to relieve them from their burdens and remove them from the crown prince's ire.

"_She knows something,"_ Thallion finally spoke, but in Avarin. The near-extinct language was all smooth curves and soft edges, but it was a language neither child knew and so were even more unsettled by. _"The boy is clueless."_

"_I wouldn't go so far as to say clueless,"_ Calaeron growled back in a rougher syntax. None but a native speaker could sound as fluid, despite centuries of learning the language from one who was born into it. He then turned his attention back to the youngest royal's best friends and fixed them with the most penetrating look he could muster, one that was better aimed at their enemies.

"Where is Prince Legolas?"

Mitsion's eyes widened further, if possible, and his breathing picked up. They hadn't been told why they were summoned and the child had been at a loss as to why they were being questioned in such a way. But now, the crown prince's intensity had finally been explained. Only one being in all of _Arda_ could inspire such ferocity.

"He is missing?"

Those were the wrong words to say, for Calaeron stopped his pacing and glared at the two as though they were the single-most reason for Legolas' disappearance. It was truly the most terrifying look they had ever had bestowed upon them.

"I swear to the _Valar,_ if you do not tell me everything you know in the next minute," he bit the last word out in a harsh bark, his eyes flashing with unrestrained rage. "So help me-"

"_Brother," _Thallion stood from against the desk and wrapped a large hand around Calaeron's arm, pulling him close and again using his native tongue but in a lower, more soothing tone. _"They are only children."_

The Avar did not let go of his brother right away, and instead continued his hold, as he hoped it would anchor the frustrated elf just long enough to regain himself.

It was the tears welling in Alarcien's light-gray eyes that finally deflated the crown prince's anger. The entire time, she had been brave and composed—but everyone had their breaking point and it appeared that she had finally reached hers.

She buried her pale face in her hands and sobbed, saying nothing but "Oh Legolas," over and over. Her tears were heavy and heartbreaking, and her cries were full of guilt and sorrow.

Calaeron bit his lip and kneeled before the _elleth, _pulling her small hands away from her face and steering her gaze to his. He let his anger melt away and actually allowed his own fear and understanding to bleed into his expression, fixing the child with a look he usually reserved for late-night thunderstorms and tearful nightmares.

"What has he done, _Penneth?_"

His now-gentle tone had the desired effect that his all of his indignation had not accomplished. Alarcien hiccupped once before she tilted her head up and looked into the concerned face of her kingdom's crown prince. Gone was the wrathful elf, and in his place was nothing more than a worried brother.

"He has ordered me to say nothing," she began, hiccupping again as another tear slipped down her face. Mitsion stared at her like she had betrayed him. He allowed his focus to bounce confusedly between the eldest prince and his best friend. Alarcien had known the whole purpose for their summoning? She knew their best friend was missing and yet chose to tell him nothing?

Calaeron tenderly swept the errant tear from her face and pulled a tear-soaked strand of hair away from her eyes to tuck behind a tiny ear. The mere thought of putting such fear into the elfling in the first place caused an overwhelming sense of guilt to seep into him like a disgraceful stain. He had allowed himself to behave like nothing better than a heartless barbarian! His _Naneth_ would be ashamed.

"It is alright, little one," he soothed. "But we need to know where he's gone."

Alarcien nodded, shuddering as she tried to compose herself. It felt like a betrayal in her heart to open up to the two princes, but she knew deep within herself that Legolas would forgive her.

"I do not know exactly _where_ he has gone," she began with a shaky inhale. "But he said he had to, for us. For me and for Mitsion. For you and Thallion, for your _Ada_—I mean the king, _hir nin_. I think he means to go to _Imladris._"

Calaeron hung his golden head and Thallion merely placed a hand on his older brother's shoulder, fighting the sick twisting of his stomach. Somehow, they knew that was the only direction the elfling could have gone, but to have it confirmed….

"You may leave, both of you."

The Avar spoke for Calaeron, knowing his brother well enough to infer that he would be at a loss for words and would have nothing more to say. The children hurried off, shaken but more fearful for their friend than themselves.

"Oh Legolas."

* * *

With morning came a frigid bite to the air, and Legolas found himself grumbling in distaste at the thought of emerging from his cloak and crawling down to the frost-covered forest floor below. He could hardly be compelled to willingly sacrifice his warmth for even another foot traveled over freezing ground.

Maybe _Imladris_ could come to him?

Legolas chuckled at the silly thought, warily disentangled himself from Faervere's cloak, and began climbing down the chilled bark of the tree. His sleep-muddled hands were stiff and cold, but the journey back to the ground was warming them quickly. Once he finally reached the forest floor, he gave the tree a thankful pat and stretched his thin arms over his head.

Legolas then giggled when his stomach let out a displeased growl.

This, however, was a problem. Should Legolas tap into his precious food stores now, or save them for later in the trip? He did not know how to hunt and knew very little about gathering, but could he really afford to burn through his supplies so soon? He had packed as much as he could, but he wasn't quite sure how long that would last for someone with no survival experience. Legolas did not know how to ration his supplies—all he had was common sense, which was not always enough.

A stream, that would be the answer. He could catch fish, or perhaps there was edible foliage along the water that he could make his breakfast from!

Pulling out his brothers' map, he tried to make sense of exactly where he was. Sure, there were landmarks and other distinguishing features listed on the parchment, but that did not mean he was good at orienting himself within such a document. The map was written for—and by—elves who were well-versed in navigation.

He had a general idea of how far he'd walked the previous night, and he knew he was traveling in the correct direction. Legolas would just have to continue on until he discerned his location on the map.

Easier said than done.

Thankfully, the trees were helpful enough to point him the right way. Without his guiding star, it would be hard to know where he was going and he couldn't very well travel only at night. He could be heading south, for all he knew. The sun wasn't always the most helpful, either. It was often shielded by the canopies above and hard to tell its position until either very early or very late in the day.

After almost an hour of walking in the direction the trees gave, however, he stopped at what was very obviously the tree that had housed him the night before.

_Elbereth, _he was going in circles!

Legolas squared his shoulders and studied the woods again, still unsure of which way to go. He wished for a sign, preferably something with bold letters and bright colors literally telling him THIS WAY! But alas, there was nothing in his surroundings that directed him. His surroundings, of course! What had Nildon always told him? He had to see with his ears.

Closing his eyes, Legolas opened his senses to the living forest. At first, he was nearly blown away by the overwhelming sounds and scents assaulting him. It was as though he had thrown himself into a crowded room without knowing who to focus on.

The distant trilling of birds, and sway of the trees, and soft sighing of the breeze were all but deafening to his untrained ears. But eventually, his ears detected a very faint rushing like that of water. A stream! There was nothing else that could make that noise.

Grinning ear-to-ear with triumph, Legolas set off in the direction of the water while simultaneously thanking whatever higher power he could for the insanity of archery instructors.

Soon enough, he found himself on the banks of a modest brook, still mobile despite the pervasive chill of the air. It had not yet frozen over, to his delight. Little chunks of ice and frost clung to the rocks surrounding the water, but mother nature had not fully encased it in her unforgiving grip.

He carefully stepped across the slick, wet stones and crouched down, dipping his hands into the water to take a drink. But as quickly as he had dunked his hands, he yanked them back out again.

"Ai!" He shouted, for the water was so cold that it nearly burned his fingers and he could have kicked himself for his own foolishness. Of course, the water would be cold—it was nearly winter! The ice should have been enough to warn him, but he had been too excited by the sight of the moving water.

Shaking his head in exasperation, he pulled his heavy pack off his shoulders and searched the warm folds for an empty water skin. At least he'd had the forethought to pack an extra. And while he didn't relish the thought of sticking his hand back into the water a second time, at least it wouldn't take long to fill the skin. Then, he could let it warm slightly before it would be safe to drink. He couldn't risk getting too cold by drinking freezing water, that much he knew.

"Of all the things Halioth taught me," he grumbled. "He had to skip the lessons on outdoor survival."

Once the skin was filled with the near-frozen water, Legolas stood and searched the bank for signs of foliage. Berries shouldn't be hard to find, as they were hearty and could withstand the early frosts.

But to his dismay, he saw none along his precious stream. And while he had been lucky to find the water, he did not feel like pushing his luck so early by venturing deeper into the forest. Lest he lose his way, or come across danger he was not yet prepared to handle. So he simply dug out a corner of waybread and chewed thoughtfully.

Consulting the map, he surmised that he could follow his stream for several days before needing to change directions.

He set out once more, eager to make good progress.

* * *

The council chambers were buzzing with low, anxious talk as the inhabitants waited for the arrival of the king and his sons. A modest fire crackled and spit in the background, adding to the rumble of conversation.

It was not a rarity to be delayed until the king was available for congress with the kingdom's leaders and diplomats, as his schedule was filled from the minute he woke to the moment he slept. But what _was_ rare was that the princes had not yet arrived for the session, where they were almost always early to any engagements so long as they were available.

Hrávo met the concerned gaze of a few of the gathered commanders in the room, nodding once before looking back down to the frayed material of his boots. He tapped them against the cool stone floor, kicking up small puffs of dirt and watching one of the worn seams in his boot as it strained against the slightest pressure. They would need replacing soon, just like everything else he owned.

He didn't know much of the situation, but word of the disappearance of Prince Legolas had burned through the palace and it didn't take a genius to deduce the reason for the congregation. If ever there were a true emergency for which to call council, it was this. The fact that this one included commanders like himself only gave him more reason to be worried.

Ever since the death of Prince Faervere, his commander, he had been given charge of the prince's warriors and while the responsibility terrified him—he was proud of their achievements. Hrávo took to his assigned role with equal parts loyalty and fear. He was immensely proud to be counted among those worthy enough to occupy this space, awaiting the arrival of their leaders.

The loud thunk of a staff, wielded only by members of the king's personal guard, announced the entrance of all three absent royals at last, putting a stop to all hushed conversation within the chamber. The hastily-assembled council took their seats and gave the royals their full attention, hardly daring to breathe.

The session was opened with a hurried summary of events, beginning with the discovery of Legolas' disappearance, information given by Alarcien, and the nervous confession made by Limbon. When everyone was brought up to speed, the true meeting began.

"It is because of this information that we agree with the assumption that Prince Legolas has set out for _Imladris_," Thallion concluded wearily, for he was the only one with a level enough head to speak. "He means to finish the mission our lost twelve were unable to complete."

Hrávo took in a sharp breath, feeling a piercing spike of pain through his chest at the mention of their lost comrades. The young commander had come up through novice training with Faervere and his death had felt like losing a limb. As if losing the queen and Prince Faervere hadn't been bad enough, there was now the chance of the very same aching loss of the youngest prince—and the youngest elfling in the kingdom.

The eldest princes had always been kind to Hrávo, treating him as an equal and seeking his advice in times of need, both on the battlefield and off. The least he could do was offer them the same courtesy and indeed, the loyalty their comradeship entitled them to. In the past three months alone, he had watched them work themselves into the ground for their kingdom. It was time their warriors returned the favor.

"My lord," Hrávo stood, addressing Prince Thallion more formally than he ever had before. "With your permission, and the king's blessing, I would like to take a small party out to search for the prince. I will bring with me all who are willing."

The gratitude that shone in Thallion's eyes warmed Hrávo to his core, thawing some of the cold uncertainty that had sat in his stomach since he received word of the entire abysmal ordeal.

"_Hannon le," _Thallion bestowed him with a warm smile and a subtle bow. His voice, which had before been soft and even, was now a little rougher. "Calaeron and I are already planning similar searches for first light tomorrow morning and we would be honored to accept your help."

Hrávo returned the bow, taking his seat once again and pondering the safety of their kingdom's youngest member. "Hang on, Legolas," he prayed to the _Valar._


	5. Chapter 5

The dry snapping of a twig woke Legolas from his light slumber, startling the elfling with its sudden sound as well as the proximity of it. Hair stood up on the back of his neck and his stomach coiled into a tight knot. He felt his heart racing and his eyes darted around wildly, searching for the cause of the sound. There shouldn't have been anyone else around that far from the kingdom's boundaries, but he knew he couldn't trust the forest to be completely empty.

It had been four days since he set out on his journey to _Imladris_ and he felt it was going well, for the most part. Legolas hadn't come across much for danger thus far, and he hoped it would stay that way. He had even caught shot a small rabbit for dinner and was so proud of himself that he allowed a small fire with which to cook it over. His tunic still smelled faintly of wood smoke.

But now, he felt that perhaps the fire had been a bad idea.

Nestled high in the trees as he was, he hoped that he was safe from whatever creatures were roaming the forest. But paranoia had set in and he was afraid of every little sound. The wind became the groaning of ghosts, and the leaves were footsteps in the dark. He clutched Faervere's cloak tighter around himself and let his eyes roam the forest floor in search of whatever dangers his mind could conjure.

He nearly fell from the tree when he heard it. A distant howl broke the air, causing the hairs on his arm to stand on end. And then, a second howl. And a third. All forming the chorus to a haunting tune that spilled across the night like crimson blood on a broken battlefield.

"_Ai, Elbereth," _Legolas murmured, feeling a cold splash of fear wash over him.

He couldn't be sure if it was the fire that drew them, or the smell of cooked meat. Or maybe it was simply poor luck, he did not know. But what he did know was that he was in grave danger. Legolas could only hope they were not close and that he could stay well ahead of them.

The young prince could do many things, but fighting off a pack of wolves was not among them. Were he one of his brothers, then perhaps there would have been nothing to fear. Calaeron probably never had to worry about wolves, for he was too quick and too sharp-witted to ever be caught unaware.

And Thall, well he was too strong. Legolas had seen him kill a full-sized Great Spider like it was nothing, so a pack of wolves would be no trouble at all to the Avar.

Faervere would probably have laughed at them, or outran them and led them on quite the chase. He would have been three steps ahead of them, laying a trap they would never expect.

But, as he had concluded several times over the duration of his time in the forest, he was _not _his brothers. He was not as sharp as Calaeron, or as stout as Thallion, or as sly as Faervere. He was, however, rather resourceful and wildly determined. And perhaps those would be qualities that he could shape into strengths like those of his brothers. Maybe, through the vast trials and tribulations of his journey, he could find something in himself that would make them proud.

But until then, he would have to resort to staying in his tree and listening for more frightening howls and imagined ghosts.

* * *

The wolves had definitely picked up his scent, Legolas decided as he focused on another spot to stare at on the forest ground in front of him. He had heard them all through the previous night and been wary of his surroundings the entire day. In his frightened state, every little sound was the wolves finally catching up to him.

He had made good progress and was confident that he was still traveling in the correct direction, despite constantly looking over his shoulder for his pursuers. If he had read the map properly, he could follow his stream almost the entire way to the High Pass. He would walk along the stream during the day, hardly venturing further than within earshot of the water.

At night, the trees would shelter him.

Legolas had never spent so much time in trees, but he felt himself growing more comfortable in their heights as each night passed. Elves belonged in trees, certainly. And they were always so excited to guard him in the dark. It was the daytime that frightened him most, contrary to everything he had been taught. In the daylight, he was completely exposed.

On his very next breath, his feet halted their progress down the forest path. His upper body seemed to struggle at first to catch up with the rest of him, he had stopped so suddenly. His mouth grew dry and his entire body felt as though he had been struck with lightning. A stench unlike anything in _Arda_ pervaded his nostrils, turning his stomach and setting his heart racing. It smelled of death and rot, so strong he could taste the bitterness of it on his tongue. His mind screamed at him while his body was several steps behind.

Orcs.

He broke from his stupor and dashed to the nearest tree, grabbing the closest branch and pulling himself up higher and higher with each passing second. His body moved in time with his thundering heart, propelling him upwards faster than a breath. The string of his bow caught on an errant branch, ripping both it and the quiver from his body. Leaves whipped his flushed cheeks and he all but threw himself upward to the next limb, and then the next, trusting the tree not to allow him to fall. He paid no mind to how risky each handhold was, so long as it lifted him away from danger. Legolas felt his lungs burning with the effort of climbing, but the fear pushed him further.

"_Hurry, Greenleaf!"_

The tree lowered its limbs, making it easier for Legolas to grab them and pull himself to safety. He felt the tension of the tree like a vibrating hum beneath the bark. He dug his fingers desperately into the wood, begging it to hold his weight.

"_Be still," _the tree soothed once he was high enough, closing its branches below him to better shield the elf from the dangers on the ground. He had his arms wrapped around the trunk, peeking through the leaves to watch what new terror was coming.

It was then that he noticed his pack laying on the forest floor, filled with all of his food and—most importantly—Faervere's dagger. He was lucky enough to have been holding onto the map when he smelled them, but he would lose everything else.

Tears sprang to his eyes and his throat tightened unpleasantly. _'It's just an object,' _Legolas told himself, swallowing hard around the whimper that wanted to fight its way out. It certainly didn't _feel_ like "just" anything.

When the orcs came into view, Legolas couldn't hold back a nervous gulp and he prayed to the _Valar_ that they would be dim-witted enough to overlook his pack and his bow. He prayed even harder that they wouldn't look for their owner among the trees. His heart was slamming so hard in his chest that he had to strain to hear them over the rushing in his ears.

There were at least half a dozen of them, all smelling of decay and covered in muck. Orcs were filthy creatures, and these were no exception. Their scent overpowered the soft, sweet smell of the forest and covered all with a stale, sour stain that leeched into the very wood and made his sensitive nose burn at the offensive smell. They appeared to have recently gone through a battle, for many were bloodied and a few walked with a pronounced limp. From the looks of it, there should have been more to their numbers. They were probably just a small, severely-diminished group that had been lucky enough to escape in the fray.

"Filthy maggots," one of the largest growled, kicking at the ground with an unwounded leg. "I ever get my hands on their pretty faces again…."

Worry snaked its way into Legolas' gut, for there was only one creature that orcs hated with such passion: elves.

"Didja see the big one? Wit' all those filthy braids?" A thinner orc, this one was missing part of its hand, smiled with a few blackened teeth. "Ugri nearly cleaved it in two before he was slain! I hope it dies in agony, screamin' its momma's name!"

"I think it was their leader," the first orc laughed, stilling the young prince's breath with the cold cruelty of its voice. "They will have to bring its cursed body home in pieces!"

More laughter rang through the forest, burning Legolas' ears and bringing tears to his eyes. He could only guess at who the orcs were speaking of, and he hoped he was wrong. For his brother, Thallion, could very well be described as "big" and would have been recognizable as one of the leaders. And no other elf wore as many braids, for it was a distinct mark of the Avarin culture to wear several elaborate braids to mark one's rank as a warrior.

Not Thall!

The elfling buried his face in his arm, gripping the rough bark tighter as the tears carved their way down his cheeks. He can't have lost another brother to the blasted darkness, it would not be fair!

"Oi, what's this?"

His stomach dropped through his feet to join them on the forest floor. They had found his pack and his ruined bow. They had Faervere's dagger!

He peeked back through the leaves and watched them tear open his precious bag, laughing at the provisions they discovered within. The meat, they would fight over and devour in minutes. His water skins would be greedily drained. The dried fruits and waybread would be wasted and crushed beneath their feet with a sickening grin. His two spare knives from the armory would be kept and his bow snapped in half, along with the arrows.

And Faervere's dagger.

"Lookie 'ere!"

The beautiful weapon was raised against the light, its white bone handle shining gloriously in the sun. The intricate patterns etched into the blade caught little flashes of brilliant light and threw them in all directions. It was the most beautiful weapon Legolas had ever seen, and now it would be gone.

"Must have belonged to that princely scum Ugri hacked," the big one chuckled. "Guess it's mine now!"

They strode off, limping and cursing through the forest as they went. His pack was gone, as was the beloved dagger. And all of his hopes were dashed with them.

* * *

Dismounting his steed, Apseniel looked over at his commander with rising concern and a frown settling over his face like a darkening storm cloud. They had not stopped their ferocious journey back to the king's halls, wanting nothing more than to be well away from the stench of orc.

They should have slowed down. _'I should have convinced him to rest,'_ the elf berated himself again.

Apseniel could only watch in horror when Thallion had been caught in the lower back by an orc's filthy sword, as no one was near enough to protect the prince. So occupied by the battle, were they, that none had noticed the large orc lumbering behind their leader. For one horror-filled moment, the Lieutenant thought he was witnessing his commander's death as the creature's blade embedded itself heart-stoppingly close to Thallion's spine. When the warrior-prince remained on his feet, however, Apseniel was granted a moment of awed relief.

The red that had stained commander's back, however, worried him through the remainder of the battle, whispering his dire fate in the back of Apseniel's mind. It had grown in size within minutes, like a dripping crimson flower in full bloom. He kept waiting for his leader to drop to his knees in defeat, though he should have known better than to ever be of such little faith.

A small number of orcs had escaped, but they hadn't had the numbers to pursue them. Not at the risk of finding a second party of reinforcements waiting to water the forest with their blood.

'_By the gods, I should have covered him better!'_

Thallion slid off his own steed with a barely-restrained wince, just stopping himself from reaching back and grabbing at the wound with shaking, bloodstained hands. Steel grey eyes roamed over the exhausted band of warriors who had been with them on this ill-fated search party, narrowing and looking for injuries that thankfully were not there beyond a few minor scrapes and bruises. His wound was the most serious.

"Let me look," Apseniel cautiously approached him, hoping he wouldn't be shooed away from offering his commander some assistance. While Thallion had promoted Apseniel to his second, the younger elf was still unsure what his standing with the Avar was. Caranel, Apseniel's now-deceased best friend and—if he would ever admit it to himself—the only elf he'd ever love, was the true second-in-command. She had been killed, along with ten other elves, defending her queen just three long months ago.

He simply felt like a fraud in her place.

To his surprise, Thallion merely sighed and handed his horse's reigns to one of the other young elves in the band. With a small nod, he dismissed the elf. He then turned his bloodied back to Apseniel, offering the younger elf a sign of trust he had never expected.

Timidly, the elf captain began to gently pull the ruined tunic upward, but found that it was stiff with blood and sticking to the wound. Even being as careful as possible, he still felt Thallion tense as the inflexible fabric finally came free from torn skin with a wet rip.

The wound wasn't long; it started at his waist just to the right of his spine and angled upward into the ribs below his right arm. But where it was shallow at his midriff, it was deep and jagged over his ribs. It looked like the grimy blade had caught on the lowest rib before cruelly being yanked away from his side, nearly taking bone and flesh with it. As it was, he was fortunate not to have been cleaved in two from the sheer force and brutality of the hit. Apseniel found himself swallowing hard at the nausea that suddenly reared its ugly head, his stomach turning at the gruesome image his battle-weary mind conjured.

"This will definitely need stitching, Commander."

Thallion nodded, stepping away from his Lieutenant and turning to face him. His pale face was covered in sweat, grime, and splatters of blood—mostly orc. Once they were eye-to-eye with each other, Thallion narrowed his gray eyes. Apseniel wasn't oblivious to the scrutinizing gaze of his commander, who was searching him for signs of injury and fatigue. He merely allowed his superior to ease his own mind where his soldiers were concerned and, when the prince was satisfied, Apseniel gave him a reassuring smile.

"Find the king," Thallion said, rolling his neck from side to side in a useless attempt to release the tension that had built there. "Have him meet me in the healing wards."

Nausea was joined by a spike of fear. It sat, pooling with hot tension, in the bottom of his gut.

"Yes, Commander."

The older elf gave him a drowsy, knowing smile at the waver in Apseniel's voice.

"Then get some rest when you've finished."

Nodding in the closest to a bow as Thallion would accept, the young warrior captain wasted no more time. He found the nearest guard and asked after the king's whereabouts with only a slight note of fear in his voice. Armed with a location, and a stomach full of nerves, he reached his destination in far less time than he would have liked.

He announced his presence to the two royal guards stationed outside the king's afternoon briefing, and then took a deep breath, striding into the room appearing thrice as confident as he felt.

* * *

Thranduil hadn't felt this lonely amongst a roomful of elves in half an age, but today was more taxing on him than any other had been. His head buzzed with a low ache and his shoulders felt as though he were carrying the entirety of the kingdom on his back. Uphill.

All three of his sons were outside the palace walls, and the king felt very alone indeed.

With the king's permission, Calaeron and Thallion had both gone into the forest just two days earlier in search of the wayward elfling. Even Hrávo, Faervere's second-in-command—and now leader of the late prince's warrior company—had stepped in and taken a guard into the forest. They had each chosen a direction and left the previous day.

Thranduil hadn't a moment's rest since.

So when Apseniel, Thallion's Lieutenant, barged into the chamber out of breath and with bloodied hands, Thranduil thought the worst. Every possible scenario ran through his head like the worst of nightmares, made only more vivid by consciousness and his own life experience.

"My lord," the captain bestowed him with a hasty bow. "Prince Thallion asked me to send for you, he requests your presence in the healing wards."

Thranduil dismissed the small board of governors with a wave of his hand, reassured by the thought that they hadn't truly accomplished anything anyway; he stood on shaking legs, fully intent on racing to his son's side. He barely allowed Apseniel the time to catch up with his long strides, his heavy robes swishing furiously in his wake.

They reached the healing wards in mere minutes and Thranduil's heart was in his throat every step of the way. Never had a distance felt so far. He was quickly coming to regret not asking Apseniel for an update on his son's condition before he tore through the keep like an elf possessed.

Muffled voices could be heard from within the chamber, kept at a low volume in respect of the few other elves in the ward. Once Thranduil recognized Thallion's low timbre, he wasted no time in throwing open the heavy doors separating him from his son.

The Avar was facing away from his king, seated backward in a chair with his bloodied tunic in a fisted hand. There weren't enough skilled quartermasters in the entire kingdom to repair the shredded garment well enough to be re-used. The cloth hung from his pale fingers in frayed, crimson strips. It was a wonder the elf was even conscious, judging by the amount of blood soaked into the worn fabric.

Lanyarion tutted over a ragged, torn wound in the elf commander's lower back. He huffed in what could have been anger, or any number of similar emotions, every time more blood seeped from the damaged flesh. When the chamber doors had opened with a loud bang against unyielding stone, it was only the healer's strong hand on Thallion's left shoulder that kept him from turning to greet his king. Despite the long needle pulling his broken skin back together.

Thranduil wasn't sure what saddened him most: this new, garish wound on the elf's back, or the numerous other scars that littered his son's pale skin. There were various knife scars, leftovers from the occasional arrow wound, and thick, knotted skin over his left shoulder—where a Great Spider had nearly claimed him years ago. He would never forget that day.

The king's light-blue eyes were momentarily drawn to the longest scar, stretching from Thallion's lower left side all the way across to the top of his right shoulder.

Faervere's life had been spared at the cost of that ghastly wound. Thallion had downplayed its severity, to the point of passing out minutes from the palace, just to save his younger brother the fright of the sight of it. Lanyarion had cursed up and down at the stubborn elf, disguising his fear and concern for the prince under a heavy layer of sarcasm and anger. Thallion had earned himself a gruesome scar, and many new colorful words to add to his vocabulary.

"Adding another scar to your collection?"

Thranduil knew his eldest sons were equally scarred, but he wished their bodies were unblemished. By the gods, he hoped Legolas would not suffer the same growing pains his brothers had undergone. What he wouldn't give for his beloved sons to live in absolute peace.

Thranduil's weak attempt at levity was not missed by either elf, and Lanyarion scoffed in amusement while he busied his hands with Thallion's wound. He swiped more blood from the remaining skin yet to be stitched, huffing again before he resumed his careful sewing.

"He was being a downright fool," the healer mumbled. Then, once he remembered just who it was he had spoken to, ducked his head and sheepishly grinned. "Apologies, _aran nin._"

Thranduil raised a hand, quieting the cantankerous healer, before walking around the chair and stopping just in front of the Avar's line of sight.

"It isn't serious, _Adar_," Thallion assured, earning himself a poke in his uninjured side from the healer, who again called him a fool before continuing to gently clean and stitch the wound with more care than he would ever admit to. He took in the grayish pallor of Thallion's skin, the sweat on his brow warring with the lines of pain etching into his face, and found himself disinclined to believe his son's assessment.

"Legolas lives."

The prince's voice shook around two precious, much-awaited words, stilling the king's observations. Thranduil felt hot tears prickle at the corners of his eyes and a fierce surge of hope rushed through him like a raging river. His child was alive, _Ai Elbereth!_

"We broke through a small orc party not far from an abandoned campsite," the commander reported, tears threatening at his own grey eyes. "It was abandoned only hours before, but it was covered in small boot prints roughly the same size as his. The trees still firmly refuse his location, but I begged them to at least tell me if he was alive."

"Thank the _Valar,_" Lanyarion paused in his meticulous stitching just long enough to smile in relief, patting his young friend on the shoulder in an attempt at comfort.

But, to both the healer's and the king's dismay, the young elf lowered his head and wept.

"This is all my fault," Thallion choked. "He kept asking about destiny and finding his place, and what did I tell him? _You'll know when you feel it._ What in _Arda _was I thinking!"

Thranduil lowered to a knee in front of his son, prompting Thallion to try and get out of the chair so he could kneel even lower, until he was forced back down by the Elvenking's firm hand.

"Please, _hir nin,_" Thallion fought. "A king does not kneel."

Sorrowful grey eyes clamped onto bright blue.

"No, _ion nin," _Thranduil soothed, smoothing down silken black locks and tangled braids, and put every ounce of comfort into his touch. "But a father does."

* * *

Freezing rain pelted the realm, adding a frozen layer to both stone and tree alike. The world was painted a dismal gray, leeching any sign of warmth from the surrounding lands.

Thallion stood like a battered sentry, slightly hunched and folded over himself, against one of the arched entrances to the palace courtyard. The chill in the air had nothing over the chill that had seeped into his core, layering over all of his warmest thoughts and weighing heavily on his _fea._ His very spirit felt weak and brittle, covered in frost and bad omens.

A runner had found him where he was resting in his bedchamber only hours earlier, relaying the news that the crown prince and his guard were spotted not far from home. Calaeron would be the last to arrive from their exhausting hunt, no doubt returning empty handed and heavy of heart, like the others. Like Thallion.

His grey eyes observed the rain as it continued to fall from an even greyer sky, hitting the ground with a soft splat, and he fought a shiver. He winced at the pain from the wound in his back and rubbed his chilled hands against the fabric of his leggings, leaning against the damp stone of the archway. His exhausted mind wondered if he would simply turn to stone beside the arch if he waited in the cold much longer.

Palace staff occasionally walked by on their way through, hurrying to their next task, but knew better than to stop and speak to the sullen warrior. Despite how wounded he obviously looked. Neither of the elder princes had been particularly good company as of late, prone to scowling off into the distance one moment and being completely unaware of their surroundings in a mad dash down the halls in the next.

Thallion shifted his position, again grimacing through a wince, before standing up completely straight and tilting his head. There! That was the sound he was waiting for. It was the clatter of hoof beats on rain-soaked ground, clearly the return of Calaeron and his borrowed guard. As the lord commander of the king's army, he had the pick of any of the realm's warriors—he had chosen many from his own former company to join him on his patrol. Even after all this time, the sound of the crown prince's signature troop formation was not difficult to identify.

In the distance, Calaeron's magnificently-glowing hair could be easily recognized—he was truly as emblematic a figure as his father.

Some of the lingering chill thawed from inside Thallion's chest, leaving him more room to breathe. The Avar hurried forward in long, determined strides, all signs of exhaustion and infirmity completely erased from his body but for a few moments.

He would not even attempt to hide his eagerness behind a curtain of stoicism; he just wanted to lay eyes over his brother and relieve at least one of the persistent aches from his body. He could allow himself that one indulgence.

The brothers locked eyes and Thallion knew, instantly, that Calaeron had been unsuccessful in finding their elfling. But what drew his gaze more than anything else was the dark bruising that stained the right half of the crown prince's face, extending up into his hairline and hiding from sight behind that glorious hair. Someone had gotten close enough to wound the eldest Thranduilion so intimately, and it was an image that didn't settle well with Thallion.

He knew better than to rush forward and crowd his brother's space when he was wounded, so he instead compelled the prince's steed to come to him. Recognizing a familiar face, the roan-colored mare complied with a shake of her head and a long, wearied snort. She stopped just in front of the Avar, lowering her head and nudging the young elf with her nose, before snuffling against him in content.

He gently patted the fatigued animal's warm jaw, reaching up and running long fingers through her dirtied mane. Giving the horse his attention had the added effect of allowing Calaeron plenty of time to dismount at his own pace, which was clearly sluggish and hampered by pain or injury—or likely both.

Saying nothing, Thallion shuffled closer and wordlessly offered his shoulder for the older elf to grab and steady himself for the seemingly impossible distance between the horse and the ground.

Upon closer inspection, Thallion could see smudged areas of blood marking Calaeron's arms and neck. He could not yet tell their origins, whether they were the Thranduilion's or one of his warrior's, but their presence did not bode well. If his own experiences were anything to judge by, Calaeron's guard had met similar resistance in the forest and had to fight their way through it just the same.

When Calaeron stumbled, Thallion released the mare and gripped the prince's arm in a firm, but gentle grasp. The older brother sent the younger a hurried, grateful look and squared his shoulders. The blonde elf had only taken a few moments to convince himself that he was steady enough to stand unassisted, and Thallion allowed him the distance to try—while knowing full well that his brother would not remain upright.

The surprise that flitted over Calaeron's face once his body announced its downfall to the elf would have amused Thallion in another time. Perhaps he would have even released an exasperated chuckle before helping his wounded, worn-out brother.

But this was not another time.

Thallion caught Calaeron with a wince and just barely managed to slow his descent, supporting drooping shoulders and near deadweight with a large arm wrapped around a slender chest as he eased their bodies to the rain-soaked ground.

Calaeron sagged against Thallion, leaning his heavy head against the stronger elf's shoulder in a move that made him appear so terribly, achingly young.

"Here, or the healing wards?"

Thallion whispered into his brother's hair, wrapping his arms around the older prince and shielding him from view. The light rain seeped through their clothing and caused both to shiver, so Thallion held him even tighter in the hopes of lending some of his warmth to the more wounded of the two. His moment of weakness was no one else's to witness, and Thallion would give him all the safety he could offer against the concerned, prying eyes of their people.

The darker-haired prince looked around, trying to decide who he could send as messenger to the healing wards. It was obvious to him that his brother would need a healer, but he wanted to give Calaeron the option of having one brought to them or of attempting to make it to the wards on their own.

"I am fine, _Muindor,_" Calaeron protested. "I do not need any treatment."

The sullen, defeated note in the eldest brother's voice was enough to make the decision for him. It wasn't that Calaeron felt he didn't _need_ treatment, but rather felt he didn't _deserve_ it due to some perceived failure of his own.

"We are not doing this," Thallion growled, startling the blond elf into looking up into his brother's pale face.

Thallion carefully drew his exhausted brother's arm over his shoulder with another wince of his own, pulling him to his feet and praying to the _Valar_ that Calaeron could remain steady just long enough for Thallion to shift the other elf's weight to better support him.

Mercifully, Calaeron remained upright. Thallion wrapped his arm around the prince's back, squeezing him tightly into his side and lending his brother whatever strength he could offer.

They made it to the wards on their own, covered in rain and sweat and pained grimaces. The two brothers, drained though they were, smiled through sweat-streaked faces at their small victory. Lanyarion, on the other hand, was not so amused.

"Foolish princes."

* * *

After losing his pack two days ago, Legolas spent more time on the ground in search of provisions. He no longer had his stream to follow, as he had finally made it to the High Pass, but he now also needed to be much more observant of his surroundings.

Without his water skins, Legolas had to be more sparing of his water supply.

He'd discovered, with the trees' help, that he could weave together many still-green leaves and fashion himself a makeshift pouch to hold water. It wasn't much and it dripped ceaselessly, so he kept it wrapped in a piece of cloth he tore from his tunic to save as much as possible. He found it would last nearly an entire day, so he drank from it sparingly.

Legolas didn't know when he would find another stream.

His thoughts often drifted toward home, as was expected on such a long journey. What had happened to Thallion? Was his strong, indomitable brother even still alive after such a grievous injury? And what of Calaeron? Had they both perished in a futile search for him?

And his _Ada._ His poor father had been through much since the loss of _Naneth_ and Faervere, and it pained Legolas to imagine that he was to be yet another cause of pain for his overburdened father. Perhaps this was a terrible idea, after all. This journey had brought nothing but trouble thus far.

The snapping of a twig and a low, animalistic growl rose from behind the elfling. He had not even the time for fear to overtake his body, it all happened so fast. It seemed that even _he_ could not outrun what was clearly the hands of fate. That inhuman growl was the last thing Legolas heard before the wolves that had been on his tail for the last few days finally caught up to him.

There were four large, menacing wolves. All of them lean and powerful and full of hunger. With matted fur and streaks of dried blood on their jaws, they had death written on every inch of their bodies, in every minute twitch of their coiled muscles. Each had gleaming yellow eyes and long, deadly teeth ready to sink into the soft flesh of an unsuspecting elfling.

At first, he didn't scream when the nearest wolf closed its mouth around Legolas' right ankle and pulled him violently off his feet. The shock was enough to stun him into silence, and he could feel the creature's hot breath seeping into the skin of his leg. Its companions only watched as their alpha took first bite.

When the wolf finally bit down, snapping bones like they were dry kindling, Legolas screamed at last.

White hot pain exploded before his eyes, filling his entire body with a burning fire unlike anything the elf had ever experienced. The ferocity of his scream ripped its way up his throat, tearing the delicate flesh and echoing through the forest, ringing in his ears and bouncing off the inside of his skull.

He was slammed with an instant wave of nausea, fighting the bile that rose to the back of his throat, but that was nothing to the pounding of his heart in his thin chest. A rushing sound filled his ears, like an angry river waiting to drag him to the bottom.

Legolas was going to die, and not a single soul would ever find him. No one would be able to retrieve his body, as it would be devoured by hungry wolves in mere hours. He heard stories of what the hungry creatures could do. His brothers were likely dead too, and all his _Ada_ would have to live with was pain and sorrow, and it was All. His. Fault.

The forest dimmed around him as the wolves tugged his unresponsive body several feet deeper into the trees. His cloak, Faervere's cloak, caught on roots and began to tear along with patches of Legolas' skin. He wondered, weakly, just how far they would drag him before they stopped to chew at his flesh.

But suddenly, everything stopped.

A loud yelp echoed through the woods and the pressure on his ankle was released, shooting fire up his ruined leg. He laid there nearly unconscious in the dried leaves, feeling concerned roots weaving themselves along his arms, whispering comfort into his ringing ears and begging him to please get up.

The trees urged him to remain awake, assuring him that he was safe and that they had chased away the monsters. That he would be all right as long as they were there, the monsters would never hurt him again. He was their Greenleaf, and they would protect him.

The pain was simply too much and it devoured him like the wolves would have done, rising up and pulling him far below—into the earth, which had swallowed him whole. The world faded to black and all he could think, was _"I'm sorry, _Ada._"_


	6. Chapter 6

Exhausted blue eyes were glued to the opposite wall of the healing chambers, searing through the stone so intently the elf could almost see the frigid rain falling from the steel-gray sky. Could nearly feel the cruel chill of the water as it splashed against the ground.

"Stare any harder, _Muindor,_ and I think the walls will collapse," Thallion teased humorlessly, feeling the same level of heavy fatigue that his brother suffered from. His body felt weighted and he was nearly too lethargic to stand on his own two feet. They had only been with the healers for a few hours, but time seemed to drag on as thick as mud with its sluggishness, dragging both brothers along with it.

After many curses and a lecture to rival that of any mother, Lanyarion had deemed Calaeron well enough, but made it very clear to the two elves that—in no uncertain terms—the crown prince was to remain there for the evening. Despite both being princes, the healer had a special way about him that made others anxious to consider defying. While Calaeron was well "enough," a concussion was nothing to trifle with and it would take both time, and serious rest to get the eldest prince back on his feet.

And so, the two brothers remained in the now blessedly-empty healing chambers in silence. They were surrounded by naught but the occasional healer passing through to make beds or reset supplies, or by Lanyarion himself—busied by his own menial tasks. Calaeron fell into a fitful doze on and off, so Thallion settled himself in the chair beside him to rest. His own wounds were not yet healed and he had come to find out that dragging the elder prince to the healers had not been conducive to a speedy recovery. Their favorite grumpy healer had taken one look at him and shrugged, as if to say, "Not my problem."

Prickles of fire burned in his lower back every time he shifted in his chair in search of a better position, and he was simply too tired to disguise his discomfort a moment longer. There was no sense spending any more energy by trying to hide. His breathing hitched every few minutes as he triggered the occasional searing tug on his stitches.

"There are more beds, Thall," Calaeron mumbled, switching his gaze from the wall and over to his younger brother. He knew the younger elf didn't have to stay and could have returned to his own chambers, where his warm bed awaited the elf's sore, bruised, and battered body. But he was thankful for the company, and would have done the same for Thallion. "No use in being uncomfortable."

The Avar nodded in agreement, but made no move to get up. Instead, he merely settled a broad palm over the elder prince's forearm and squeezed it reassuringly. He said nothing and simply offered his silent support, offering a wan smile in reply.

"Rest, _Muindor,"_ he sighed as he ran his free hand through his dark hair, working a few errant tangles from the strands and releasing a few braids from knotted locks. They said nothing more and Calaeron drifted off again into another light slumber, while Thallion allowed his own head to fall back and he joined him in sleep. They felt safe enough in the warm healing wards, and they both knew that Lanyarion was still around and would alert them should they be needed.

It was there that the king found his sons, taking comfort in each other's company after days of stress and heartbreak. This was the second time in as many days that he had stepped foot in those chambers, but he was a warrior king and was used to making several visits at a time.

Thranduil strode lightly, uneager to wake either of his children when they were getting much-needed rest in the one part of the keep where they could remain mostly undisturbed. But he couldn't find it in himself to leave, for he wished for their company as well. The loneliness that had clenched his heart in its iron fist refused to leave, but even the mere sight of his children had already begun to release the tight hold and brought him tendrils of peace.

His eyes raked over them hungrily, finding guilt in the relief that at least two of his sons were home and safe. He shouldn't be allowed to feel so reassured and it felt like a betrayal toward his youngest, who was neither home nor safe. The rain continued outside and his worried heart squeezed painfully with every droplet. Legolas was in that rain and he could do nothing to comfort or protect his child. It was details like these that made Thranduil feel more like a failure as a father than he ever had before.

Thallion suddenly muttered lowly, before he carefully stretched and then gasped lightly in his sleep. His entire body went rigid and his breathing picked up. No doubt he had pulled at the stitches in his back… again. The lines of pain that marked his pale face brought worry to the king. He had seen the wound when it was first treated, and so was aware of how deep and painful it would be. And how long it would take to heal. Thranduil stepped closer and his slender hands hovered over the Avar's pale form as he tried to decide what he could do for him.

Dark gray eyes refocused and met his, stopping him in his tracks.

"_Ada?"_

Thranduil's heart stuttered in his chest at that word from his son. Thallion only ever called him _Ada _and not _Adar _when he was near sleep, as that was the only time he let his guard down enough to do so. It had taken centuries after being formally adopted for Thallion to even _say_ the word, making it all the more special to Thranduil every time he heard it.

Their relationship had done nothing but improve over the last several decades. The Avar had finally loosened up and was far less formal with his family, especially since the incident with the spider what felt like so long ago. It was the last three months, however, that strengthened the bonds between the remaining members of the royal family.

Thranduil was proud of him, as he was proud of all his sons. All three of them had given him such hope for the future of their kingdom, and they had been the sole reason for his survival after losing Lanthir and Faervere. They were far stronger than he would ever be, especially when they were together. The brothers leaned on each other in ways Thranduil had never witnessed in any other elven families.

Thallion sat up straighter in the chair, gritting his teeth against another spike of pain, as he tried to give his full attention to his father. Even wounded, the young elf believed in being presentable to one's king.

"Are you all right, _Adar?_"

His tone was gentle and full of patience, and it shook Thranduil out of his momentary pause. His children had more of their mother in them than they knew. The Elvenking stared into his son's warm, open face and gave him a small smile, heartened by the concern his weary child displayed.

"Yes, _ion nin," _he placed his hand over the dark-haired elf's shoulder, squeezing softly. "I am more worried about you and your brother." _I am always more worried,_ he thought.

The king's gaze shifted to the softly-snoring form of the crown prince, whose eyes were half-lidded as he toed the line between sleep and unconsciousness. He, too, was paler than he should have been and his body twitched slightly every few minutes, as though he were falling and just barely managed to stop his descent.

"I fear he pushed himself too far," Thallion sighed, reaching over and gently tugging the closest corner of his brother's blanket higher, while his eyes bored into the fabric. "He feels as guilty as I do."

Thranduil carefully sat on the edge of the bed next to Calaeron's leg, wary of waking his son. He took a deep, cleansing breath and released it slowly. His sons, his warriors, were already burdened enough without adding recent events to already-heavy shoulders.

"I think we all feel guilty," the king then leaned over and pulled the other side of Calaeron's blanket up, completing the task Thallion had started. "But we must realize that none of this is our fault."

"Father—"

The blonde elf raised a hand, gently silencing his son's protest. He was always so eager to lay the guilt on himself.

"Please, Thallion," he implored. "Allow me to finish."

Two black eyebrows drew together pensively.

"In times like these, it's easy to blame yourself for every little fault," he said, as he smoothed down the creases in the blanket surrounding his eldest. "But all that does is drain us of energy that could be spent resolving the crisis. It is not always up to us to decide where blame lies and who its rightful owner is."

Thallion nodded and then hung his head, allowing his black hair to fall around his pale face, hiding it from view. He was good at blaming himself, as he was prone to do.

"Perhaps," came a sleep-muffled voice from between the two elves, startling both of them. "You should consider your own words, _Adar. _Lest you forget your own lesson."

Calaeron had been awake for the last minute or two, observing his father and brother closely. He didn't like what he saw, and neither did he find comfort in the stress and anxiety in either of their voices.

"You need to rest," came the weary reply of an even more wearied father. "You should be asleep."

"_Ai," _Calaeron agreed. "But so should you. All three of us should indeed take your advice, we're no good to anyone in this shape." Thranduil nodded, though Thallion still made no move. The king decided, in his son's best interest, that the younger elf would need a little prodding to comply with Calaeron's suggestion.

"Up, now," he ordered, although he maintained a gentle firmness that took all bite from his tone. He held his hands, palm up, to Thallion and waited for the stubborn elf to accept his help. The Avar took it hesitantly, and was pulled to his feet with less pain than he had braced himself for.

They shuffled over to the bed nearest Calaeron's and Thallion eased himself down onto it, tiredly kicking off his boots while Thranduil tugged the sheets down. Neither said a word when the king pushed his son with a careful hand on his shoulder, urging the elf to lay back. Thallion complied, stifling a yawn behind a broad palm and settling onto his side on the cot, facing his king.

With a smile, Thranduil pulled the blanket over Thallion's shoulders and patted the dark head. Calaeron watched this with a sleepy grin, fighting sleep long enough to observe his father—the Elvenking—tucking his warrior prince into bed.

The last thing the crown prince saw before drifting back to sleep was his father settling himself into the chair he had just convinced Thallion to vacate.

* * *

Legolas wasn't aware of how much time had passed. Days, weeks, maybe even years. Everything was wrapped in a thick, fuzzy layer of confusion and agony. He laid on the forest floor among the leaves and the roots, trying to grasp onto even the slightest bit of reality. Like a child catching lightning bugs, carefully closing his hands around their luminescence and peeking between fingers for a glimpse of magic.

Even the mere thought of moving sent shocks of agony up his leg, but it was raining and he was colder than he could ever remember being. The trees were begging him to move, to come just a little closer so they could shelter him from the drops, but he did not think he could move even an inch in any direction.

Perhaps he did not want to.

But again, it was not what his _Naneth_ would have done. She would never have given up so easily. Nor would Faervere, who had died with sword in hand. And so, Legolas vowed to never give in. No matter how painful, or how hopeless, or how downright awful a situation became.

He rolled his shaking body to the right, whimpering when his wounded ankle was jostled by even the most innocent of movements. Even the slight rubbing of fabric against his torn skin was almost unbearable. With a gasp, he reached his quivering fingers through muddy leaves and wrapped them around an eager root.

"_Yes, Greenleaf!" _It encouraged. _"Take strength, take breath, take hold and help thyself!"_

Using the willing roots, he pulled his body closer to the nearest tree, crying out as his effort disturbed destroyed flesh and shattered bones. His vision grayed and the nausea from earlier rose to a new height, making his face grow cold and his mouth fill with saliva. He shook heavily, fighting against the first few heaves before he lost the battle with his body.

The last of his energy was spent emptying the meager contents of his stomach, and he cried in both pain and shame. Huge, thick tears burned down his over-warm face, making tracks in the dirt that sullied his cheeks. How was he to save his kingdom if he could not even save himself?

For a few moments, the elfling lost consciousness, allowing the utter blackness to take over. He drifted in a sea of murky pain and confusion. Low voices curled around the elfling who heard them, but was unable to distinguish one from another. Nothing made sense, nothing but pain.

"Come on, _Penneth_."

Suddenly, Legolas' eyes snapped open and he searched the wood frantically. His heart thundered in his chest and his stomach twisted, and his hands ached to reach out and touch the owner of that wonderful voice.

"Faervere?"

But alas, there was no answer, and he was still just as alone in the woods as he was before. With a determined grunt, Legolas forced his body forward until he was on his hands and knees. The pain in his ankle reached a new height, triggering another wave of nausea that caused a round of dry heaves. But he was still upright, in a manner of speaking, and he _must _stay that way!

He crawled on all fours, spurred on by the encouraging whispers and calls of the trees. They reached out and gave him the strength he needed to move forward one devastatingly-slow inch after another.

By the time he made it to the trunk of the nearest, he was trembling and drenched in sweat—or rain, he was not certain. He dragged in breath after stubborn breath, allowing his body to shake for a few more moments before urging it to still.

In the dark, his ankle did not look all that bad. The most vomit-inducing sight was his foot, twisted at an unnatural angle below the mangled flesh. But considering his entire body could have been devoured, his ankle was a very small price to pay.

"Many thanks, _mellon," _he patted the tree that supported him, smiling wanly at the creaks and groans that came from the wood.

"_Rest, Greenleaf," _it whispered. _"But do not tarry, for it is not safe."_

They had chased away his attackers for the moment, but they were correct to warn him. He would not have long before the smell of his blood would bring them back—or draw other dangers to his location. He shuddered to think of what else could find him, vulnerable and broken on the forest floor.

Legolas drifted in and out for the next hour, whimpering occasionally at the throbs of pain coming from his wound. It reached its burning fingers up his leg, tugging on his knee and creeping up into his hip. It felt like it was moments from reaching up into his heart and stopping him cold. He would allow himself this little time to rest, hoping that the pain would recede its cruel fingers. And maybe even the sun would make an appearance over the foggy horizon and shed a little warmth over the heartsick elfling.

"Get up, _muindor!"_

Again, Legolas flinched and searched with widened eyes for the face that belonged to that voice. It sounded like it had come from right in front of him, so near he could almost feel its breath. Why was he hearing the dead? What purpose would that serve?

Shaking himself, Legolas rubbed the sleep from his eyes and turned his upper body toward the tree trunk that supported him. He sunk his fingers into the damp bark and took a steadying breath, gasping in agony when he pulled himself up onto his feet—well, onto one foot.

He would have to immobilize his ankle, but he had no supplies with which to do it.

Legolas hopped forward, ignoring the tears that streamed down his face from even the slightest jostle to the damaged limb. He could not continue like this, that much was certain. He would not make it two days, not to mention how easy a target he made.

Searching the folds of his tunic, he found both his beloved map and his makeshift water skin. While the latter was rather damaged from the ordeal, his map was in good shape. He unfurled it and tried to discern his location. Now that he had left his stream, he wasn't sure of his precise whereabouts. And it did not help that the wolves had drug him off of the path, for he would have to return to it again somehow.

But that was not what he was searching for.

"_Mellon_," he gripped one of his loving trees as he hobbled his way to it, his hands still shaking and his stomach twisting with near-constant nausea. "Are there any spider's nests nearby? Preferably abandoned ones?"

The tree swayed, dropping a few browning leaves onto his tangled hair.

"_Not far, young one."_

"Can you lead me there?"

"_You must climb, little one," _it worried. _"The webbing is high, and you are not well."_

Could he climb in his condition? _Elbereth,_ he would have to if he wanted to get what he needed. In the back of his pain-riddled mind, Legolas could remember the "unconventional" suggestion Thallion had made to the quartermasters about weaving spider webbing into cloth. While he did not relish the thought of purposefully searching for a nest, it was the best option he could come up with.

Simply wrapping vines around his wound would not be durable enough for the length of time he needed it to hold. It was a temporary solution, short-term only. Legolas was too far from home to turn back now, but also too far from his goal to make it without a little innovation. He needed something that would hold for a longer period of time, and that wouldn't degrade with his travels.

Wordlessly, he reached with shaking hands and pulled his weakened upper body into the apprehensive tree. The moment he was off the ground, the blood rushed to his ankle and he cried out with the added pressure on the wound. _Ai,_ this would be more effort than he had realized!

It was an arduous undertaking, simply getting himself _into _the canopy above. It would be an even more painful, disorienting task to weave his battered body through the treetops to the nearest abandoned nest. But, by the gods, he would do it!

* * *

Having chambers so close to the healing wards was both a blessing and a curse for Lanyarion. Being one of the senior healers in the king's palace required him to be available should any emergencies arise, and in a kingdom so besieged, emergencies were common and to be expected on a regular basis.

He was accessible nearly all hours of the day for anyone who should need him. While he presented himself as a generally ill-tempered elf, his healers knew that he would drop everything in a moment's notice, which he often did in times of great need. Lately, it seemed, Lanyarion hardly went a full day without being summoned for some crisis or another, and they mostly revolved around one particularly ill-fated family.

In all his years working in the healing wards, Lanyarion had never known worry—and exasperation—like what he experienced in his dealings with the royal family of Mirkwood. In his early years as an apprentice healer, he had hardly encountered any member of the family and their care was usually relegated to senior healers in the wards. But Lanyarion would never forget that fateful day when King Thranduil carried in a bloody, unconscious adolescent elfling with dark hair and an even darker attitude.

The youngling's care had been assigned to one of the older healers, but Lanyarion had no idea that he would soon find his life changed. One early autumn morning, he had been tasked with changing the surly, uncooperative Avar's bandages and had found himself snapping at the boy—why should Lanyarion waste his time on an elf who wanted no help? So be it, he could bleed for all the healer cared!

But instead of making the situation worse, the older elf's lack of badgering and coddling had created the opposite effect. Thallion had complied, to the utter shock of the other healers and to the relief of the royals who had made the elfling their responsibility. And from that moment on, Lanyarion found himself wishing he had never been so frustrated with the dark-haired elf, for he would never have ended up caring so much!

As the royal family grew and expanded, so did Lanyarion's role as a healer. Prince Calaeron had begun coming to him for his medical needs whenever the healer was available. When Faervere was born, the queen had given _him_ the responsibility of the elfling's care, and then the same when young Legolas surprised his way into the hearts of every elf in the kingdom. Before he knew it, Lanyarion was in charge of the health of every member of the royal family and he sometimes found himself wishing he could give it all back. Turn it in for just one more moment of peace and ignorance.

Times like what he had endured the past few decades as the shadow creeped its way through the forest, suffocating all life as it settled into the trees. Calaeron, Thallion, and Faervere had been in and out of his wards more times than he could count. And they had stood on _Mandos' _doorstep far too often.

Lanyarion, for all he claimed to be gruff and unfeeling, had been keenly affected by the tragic deaths of Lanthir and Faervere. It was especially difficult for a healer, who was used to putting every ounce of his effort into saving others, to accept a loss when he had been given no chance to make a difference. There had been no frenzied dash to the sides of the wounded, no adrenaline-fueled rush to the wards in the hopes of sparing the lives of the suffering. Just a pure, indescribable sense of failure.

Since that day, the healer had promised himself that he would no longer hide behind a mask of indifference and curtness. He would still be unwavering in his dedication to the craft, but he would no longer simply sit by and watch elves he cared about treat their bodies with less respect than they deserved.

And so it was with that very resolution that Lanyarion began his morning, before the sun even cracked open her eyes to greet the day. He signed medical reports and logged treatment plans, consulted with two herbalists about a possible improvement to an antidote against spider venom, and gently woke one very sore and irritable Elvenking.

The healer fought to conceal an amused smirk at the position he found his great king in, for he knew the lord would very soon regret sleeping in the uncomfortable armchair.

"What hour is it?"

Dulled blue eyes nearly swam with moisture as a tremendous yawn fought to crack the king's face in two, and Thranduil stretched as inelegantly as could a figure of his stature. His body protested the poor choice of sleeping arrangements almost instantly, taking his attention until Lanyarion held out a small flask just in front of the king's hand.

"It is early, _hir nin," _he answered with a slight tilt of his head toward the window, gesturing at the lack of sunlight outside. "Drink."

Not reprimanding the healer for his 'order,' Thranduil simply tilted the flask back and emptied the foul contents into his mouth with a very un-kingly shudder. The liquid burned the back of his throat as it slid down and settled in a hot pool at the pit of his stomach. He considered telling the healer how abysmal his concoction was until he felt the ache in his joints begin to ease marginally just moments later.

"It will be some time before that takes full effect, but it should remove the edge of that ache you're pretending you don't feel." Thranduil nodded in thanks, shaking his head at the healer's brusque attitude. "Fetch me if those two need anything."

Lanyarion gestured toward the still-slumbering princes, not bothering to hide a fond smile in combination with a hearty eye roll. Those stubborn royals would be the death of him!

Being awake before Calaeron and Thallion gave Thranduil a distinct advantage over his sons, something Lanyarion must have anticipated and which the king would have to thank him for later. He allowed his gaze to roam over both elves, reassuring himself that they would be well soon enough and back to their fighting strength. But that thought sent another burning through his mind. The sooner they were well enough, the sooner they would want to return to the forest and search for Legolas. And Thranduil wasn't sure that would be a good thing.

Calaeron and Thallion were both fiercely loyal to their family, and they were determined to a fault. They would find their brother, or die trying. And it was that final conclusion that Thranduil hoped to avoid. Could he bear losing even one more of his beloved sons at the cost of the safe return of another? He could not choose between his wonderful, beautiful children—elves he treasured more than the finest gems in all of _Arda._ No, he could not. And moreover, he _would _not! Thranduil would have to place his hopes in fate, praying to the _Valar_ that her cruel hands would not tear everything he cherished from his desperate fingers. Oh, Legolas!

The rest of the palace had only begun to wake, and Thranduil knew he would have precious little time to spend with Calaeron and Thallion before he would be called away to his duties. The life of a king could be a lonely one, especially knowing that he would always have to put the needs of the people before the needs of his sons.

They both still slept, and Thranduil took in the sight of their sleeping faces with a loving smile. Calaeron looked better than he had the night before, and he no longer slept with his eyes halfway closed. His coloring was improved, aside from the dark purple bruise that still dominated the right side of his pale face, and his breathing was deep and even. Thallion, too, had benefited from a well-deserved night's sleep. His posture had relaxed, though it was obvious he hadn't moved once from his position laying on his side and would probably be just as sore as Thranduil when he finally _did _move.

Thranduil almost wanted to leave them that way, to let them sleep as long as they could. He wanted to smooth down their hair and kiss their heads; he wished he could take away all their worries and cares. But a father was only as happy as his saddest child, and Thranduil was incredibly unhappy indeed—and it would be a very long time before that changed.

_END PART II_

* * *

**Part III to come starting in Chapter 7. Not far now until the end!**  
**Thanks,**

**FiTS**


	7. Chapter 7

Two sets of identical light blue eyes locked onto each other as Thranduil placed one large hand on his son's shoulder. The king did not wish to disturb Calaeron's slumber, but he could not bear to leave for his duties without selfishly comforting himself with the company of his children. In such tumultuous times, Thranduil did not always know when he would see them next and he sometimes wished he could be _just _a father. Then he would never have to leave them.

"It is time to get up, _ion nin,_ and greet the day," he smiled apologetically, gently squeezing the shoulder he had not yet released from his grasp. Calaeron stretched his lithe body, somehow not managing to dislodge the king's grip, before giving Thranduil a slight nod.

Though Calaeron looked _better,_ it was obvious the crown prince still did not feel well—as evidenced by the barely-noticeable squint as he tried to shield his eyes from the sunlight just beginning to filter into the wards. It would likely be another few days before the headache receded from Calaeron's temples and the occasional bouts of dizziness abated.

"_Ai_, _Adar,_" he swallowed, sitting up slowly and using the king for balance to combat the sudden wave of vertigo that swam through his head. "You have to leave."

It was not a question, but an observation. Thranduil nodded, for he always had to leave. It was the curse of kings, to leave one's children when they were not at their best in favor of duty and obligation. The Elvenking reluctantly stood, leaving Calaeron to orient himself fully, and turned to his other child, uneager to wake the Avar and introduce him to the stiffness and pain that was likely waiting in the wings for him.

He sat on the bed just in front of Thallion, laying his hand on the younger elf's head and pulling a loose black strand away from his face. "_Penneth,"_ he called gently, moving the same hand to Thallion's back just below his neck in the hopes of preventing him from twisting when he woke. "Wake now, Thallion."

Dark gray eyes focused on the king's face, two black brows furrowing in discomfort as the young elf returned to the waking world. Thallion then closed them with a groan, burying his face against Thranduil's leg once the pain rose in tandem with consciousness. "Easy," Thranduil soothed, rubbing his hand on Thallion's back until the Avar opened his eyes again and simply nodded at his father.

When Thallion braced his hand against the bed, Thranduil slid his arm under the elf's shoulder and helped him sit up as carefully as possible. Thallion would feel better once he began to move around more, but wounds like his hurt terribly in the early hours of the morning after a night of deep sleep.

The king remained at his son's side while Thallion breathed through the aches and the pinpricks of fire racing through his stitched-up flesh. Calaeron observed them attentively, himself only just managing to place his feet on the floor. To put it mildly, the princes were a mess—but it was nothing to the aches in their hearts after every moment they spent apart from Legolas.

Wordlessly, Thranduil stood and patted Thallion's head before crossing the few feet to Calaeron's bed and doing the same. Both princes gave their father an acknowledging nod, watching him leave the wards with a sense of sadness, for they knew he wanted nothing more than to spend the day watching over them.

"How do you feel, _muindor_?"

Calaeron laughed humorlessly at the question, spoken in rough tones from an equally-rough elf. "About as well as you, brother."

Thallion huffed, shaking his head before he stood stiffly, slowly shuffled the few feet to Calaeron, and dropped onto the bed to sit beside him. They leaned against each other as they fought to compose themselves enough to be presentable for the day, or days, that lay ahead of them.

"I hope Legolas fares better than we, Thall," the older brother sighed, nudging the younger's knee with his own. "I pray he holds on long enough for us to reach him."

Thallion frowned, "Reach him? How do you mean?"

"How do you think?" Calaeron sat up, fixing his brother with a confused stare. "We shall both be heading back out as soon as we can stand and we will find him, wherever it is he must be. He cannot stay in that forest, Thallion."

"And we cannot leave the stronghold, Cal."

"Are you mad?" Calaeron jumped to his feet, stumbling unsteadily as he nearly lost his balance. Thallion reached out to steady him, but the older elf shrugged him off with a look of disbelief. "I am not leaving Legolas out there for even another day, and I can't believe you are disagreeing with me. You of all people!"

Thallion stood to face him, towering over Calaeron as he pulled himself to his full height—despite the tugging on his stitched wounds. "We are needed here, Calaeron, with _Adar. _He cannot run this kingdom himself, and we can't afford to spend more time looking when it is clear Legolas does not want to be found."

"Does not want to be found?" Calaeron sputtered, grabbing fistfuls of his brother's tunic and pulling him roughly forward despite the wince that crossed the younger's face. "We have a responsibility to our _brother,_ Thallion. It is our duty-"

"Duty?" Thallion did not shout, surprising Calaeron into silence. He expected rage, he expected fury and heated words, not this cold solemnity that seemed to drop the entire room's temperature with its chill. "Do not speak to me of duty! You know nothing of duty—of failure. I watched as my tribe was slaughtered, as my infant brother was ripped from my mother's arms and murdered before her very eyes, before she too was killed. As my father fell defending his family. I watched as I failed to save them all. And after everything, _your_ family gave me a place when I did not want it. They gave me love when I did not deserve it. I can never repay what they gave me, but I will gladly live the rest of my days in their immense debt. So, don't you talk to me of duty."

"I will not let him die out there, Thallion," Calaeron whispered, still gripping Thallion's tunic in an iron grip. "I won't have you standing in my way."

He then let go suddenly, when Thallion least expected it, and watched with abject horror as the younger elf stumbled and fell—knocking over a bedside table with his descent. At the sound of the crash, Lanyarion came running into the room with rage on his face. He took one look at the two princes, Calaeron standing over Thallion and breathing heavily while the younger laid on the ground with his eyes tightly shut, and stormed over to the crown prince.

"What in all of _Arda_ do you think you're doing? I can hear you shouting down the halls, you are making such a racket!" He stooped to offer Thallion his hand, pulling him to his feet and all but forcing the Avar to sit on the edge of the bed. "Fighting in my wards, you two should be ashamed of yourselves—I did not think you to be children!"

Calaeron had the sudden urge to look down at his feet, while pink colored the tips of his ears and his cheeks with shame. Lanyarion impatiently tugged the back of Thallion's tunic upward, growling at the spots of blood that stained his fresh bandages. The healer shook his head while he unraveled the fabric to check the wounds.

"I hear you both yelling about duty," he stood and walked over to one of his supply carts to grab tools and new bandages, not even looking at either prince as he worked. "You have a duty to each other, for _Valar's _sake!" The older elf's hands shook where they cleaned the reopened wound, betraying the brusque composure he had spent the last several centuries perfecting. The healing chambers were silent, save for Calaeron's breathing and the unpleasant sound of a needle piercing flesh.

Lanyarion closed the wound again, swiping an herbal paste over it before wrapping clean bandages around the Avar's torso. Calaeron looked at his younger brother, ashamed at the sight of him sitting so stiffly and so pale, knowing it was _he _who was responsible. Thallion, for his part, merely kept his head lowered to hide the winces and the slight sheen of sweat that had formed on his white face. He too, was ashamed that he had allowed their argument to escalate in such a manner.

Once the healer finished his work, he stood and fixed the two with a look of raw despair, allowing his shoulders to droop in a way that neither brother had ever witnessed. It was in that same moment that Thallion looked up, his eyes widening at the pain that shone over his friend's face.

"You cannot understand how difficult—nay, how painful it is every time one of you enters these wards in the shape you come to me in," he spoke in a low, trembling voice that rose in volume and intensity with every word he said. "Knowing that I have to patch you up only to send you back out and wait until the next time you stain my hands with your blood—and yet here you are ready to fight each other while neither of you can stand up straight. So if you want to tear each other apart, do so elsewhere!"

A single, solitary tear worked its way from one of Lanyarion's silver-blue eyes, and the healer furiously wiped it away from his cheek before he turned and fled the wards as fast as his feet could carry him. The two princes were left feeling nothing but worry and filled with shame.

* * *

Hours of pain-filled climbing had finally led Legolas to his destination: an abandoned spider's nest. He was both disgusted and comforted by the sight of the shriveled up spiders on the forest floor below, reassuring him that they had been dealt with—likely by one of Mirkwood's patrols, possibly even one of his brothers.

The trees had kept up a steady mantra, urging him forward and soothing him every time he had to stop to cry at the pain in his ankle. While it did not feel very dignifying, Legolas _was _proud of himself for reaching his goal and finding the nest without passing out and dropping to the ground in a sobbing heap. Simply stopping to have a good hearty cry was remarkably relieving, releasing his pain enough to allow him to continue on.

Now that he had reached the nest, he wanted to just stop and take a break, but he knew he would rest for too long if he stopped now. Just a little more, he begged the _Valar,_ give him just a little more energy.

Webs were strung across the trees, wrapped up in dying branches and suffocating the wood trapped miserably inside. He would not need much, but he only just realized that he would be faced with another challenge: he had nothing with which to cut the webbing.

Shaking his head, Legolas weakly climbed a little higher to the nearest bundle of the sticky white mess, eyeing the spun material with disgust and a small measure of fear. Couldn't spiders communicate across the filthy gunk? He reached up toward a handful of it, hoping to simply yank apart a chunk, before the weak whisper of the trees stopped him.

"_Use us, Greenleaf," _they said. _"Take a branch to cut the filth, cut it free!"_

Smiling at the tree in thanks, Legolas broke off a piece of dried, deadened wood and thrust his hand into a great big lump of webbing. A chill raced down his spine at the feel of the slimy, tendon-like stuff. He used his other hand, holding the piece of branch, and began to clumsily saw across the web in a back and forth motion. To his surprise, it was working—albeit slowly and unevenly.

He narrowed his eyes in concentration, the tip of his tongue poking out from between his teeth, as he worked at the strong webbing. Finally, when sweat was beading along his brow, the handful he'd grabbed at last pulled away from the majority of the mass with a great, wet rip.

Triumphant, Legolas smiled and eased himself down the branches back to a more comfortable height and made his way through a few more trees until he could see that the forest floor was no longer littered with spider corpses. When he reached the cleared ground, he unsteadily descended from the canopy with his prize in hand.

Legolas tried not to cry out when his feet met solid ground, but he was so unsteady that he stumbled and fell with a shaky sob. His entire leg burned and throbbed and Legolas wanted nothing more than to be home at that very moment, snuggled between his brothers and his father in the largest, warmest bed they could find.

But alas, he was alone in the forest, and so he would have to press on.

He rolled onto his front, gasping at the shockwaves that radiated from his wound, and crawled around the forest floor gathering sturdy sticks. When he felt he had enough, he dragged himself to the base of a tree and leaned his shuddering body against it. He would rest for just a minute to catch his breath, that was all.

But when Legolas was aware again, the sun had dipped almost completely below the horizon. A whole day had passed just traveling to the nest! He would never make it to _Imladris_ at this pace!

"Okay, Legolas," he assured himself. "You can do this."

Laying out the thick, strong sticks, Legolas selected four that were of similar length and thickness. He bent his right knee and pulled his wounded ankle closer to him, ignoring the hot tears that rolled down his cheeks at the motion. This would be painful, he knew, but completely necessary if he wanted to make it to the Last Homely House. Taking two of the sticks, he laid them against the inner side of his ankle, crying out in agony when he forced the foot as straight as it would go.

His shaking hands stuck the end of the length of web to the two sticks, making one pass around the wounded ankle to hold the wood in place. He then did the same to the outside of the ankle, creating a makeshift brace for the damaged limb. His entire body was shaking violently, but he forced his quivering hands to work, making pass after pass with the sticky material until the wood was unbearably tight against his broken bones.

At last, Legolas tucked the end of his length of web into what remained of his boot, before finally succumbing to the pain and passing out. He had done it!

Night fell swiftly, cloaking the forest in her heavy shadows. The trees were uneasy, yearning to protect the elfling beneath their boughs. Legolas was deeply unconscious, now that the adrenaline had worn off and the pain took over, and so was unable to climb into the trees for safety. They would have to wait for awareness to return.

So, wait they did. They groaned and creaked with nervous movements, waving their limbs and creating a chorus of rustling leaves that covered the other sounds of the wood. Their impatience was marked by the way they swayed with a breeze only they could feel, creating an almost electric hum in the air of the forest.

Leaves dropped onto the elfling, causing him to twitch occasionally—but it did not wake him, to the trees' dismay. An hour passed, and then two, when the young prince finally stirred with a groan and a whimper. The pain was not as unbearable, to his relief, but Legolas was surprised at the agitation of the wood surrounding him.

"What is wrong, _Mellyn?"_

"_Up, young Greenleaf," _they urged. _"Into our height, up off the ground you must be! Let us keep you tonight!"_

Stunned, Legolas looked around in surprise—night had arrived already? How much time had he lost in his pain-filled stumbling? Chagrined, the elfling pulled himself upright and tested the splinted limb.

While shocks of fire still flew up his leg, the ankle held his weight. Pleased enough by his discovery, Legolas dug his fingers into the restless bark and climbed the now-relieved tree to settle in for the night. If he slept for a few more hours, he should be ready to travel again and by the _Valar,_ he would not waste any more time!

* * *

"We should not disrupt them," Mitsion argued, trailing behind an eager Alarcien as she strode confidently to the healing chambers. "They are not well, for they wouldn't be in the chambers if they were! And we shouldn't just-"

"Shouldn't just what?"

She stopped in her tracks, nearly causing Mitsion to collide with her sturdy frame, and then turned around so sharply that her unbound hair whipped him in the face. Alarcien frowned apologetically, steadying her friend with two hands and throwing her hair back over her shoulder to prevent another lashing against Mitsion's face.

"They held us and interrogated us about Legolas because they were _afraid _for him, Mit," Alarcien said with an intense determination, her nostrils flaring and her shoulders heaving. "And then they go out there and come back, torn up, _without him._ We have to know what's happening! Don't we owe that to Legolas? Wouldn't he do the same for us?"

Mitsion nodded solemnly, laying a hand on her shoulder in an attempt to comfort her. Her light grey eyes were filled with fire, but also with a heavy layer of guilt and sadness. Hadn't she tried, without success, to stop their friend?

"Of course, Ala," Mitsion soothed. "Let's go."

She swiped her fingers beneath her eyes so quickly that Mitsion _almost_ didn't notice the mistiness she cleared from underneath them. They both missed Legolas and just wanted him home, safe and sound. It wasn't too much to ask, was it?

Alarcien resumed her steady pace, but had adjusted her speed so that Mitsion could walk beside her instead of scrambling to catch up. Besides, she wanted to confront the princes with a friend by her side.

Reaching the chambers, she hesitated. She tried to remind herself that they were just elves, just her best friend's older brothers, and that was _all_ they were. But she couldn't stop her mind from screaming that they were not _just_ his brothers. _Ai, _they were the eldest princes, and formidable warriors at that! What would the words of a girl mean to them in the grand scheme of things?

A comforting hand on her back gave her courage, and she smiled at Mitsion before thrusting the doors open with an air of confidence she could never possess naturally. Alarcien pictured herself marching to the princes and demanding news of the youngest royal, and by the _Valar,_ she would get it! But one look at the two brothers was enough to stop her in her tracks. Gone were the fierce warriors who brought her to tears not so long ago.

They were calmer than Alarcien had seen since the day Legolas went missing, but there was now a thick layer of tension wrapped around both elves that hadn't been present before. The crown prince looked up at the _elleth _and smiled fondly, as though he knew her purpose all along. He probably did, for all she knew.

"Um," she stumbled, now uncertain of her approach. "I wanted to know—I mean, can you? Sorry."

"We took the wind from your sails, _Penneth," _Thallion chuckled, looking up from his position seated, slightly hunched, next to Calaeron. He had one boot pulled on, the other was sitting next to him on the bed. It appeared the brothers were preparing to leave the wards together, but something didn't quite feel right to Alarcien. There was something missing from their faces, but she couldn't place it.

"Is he alive?"

She did not have to specify who she was referring to, for he was burned into the front of their minds every waking moment of the day. A wave of emotion swept through her and her throat suddenly felt very tight. She clenched her jaw and lifted her head up, determined not to break down in front of the two older elves.

"What does your heart tell you?"

The Avar stood unbalanced, approaching her painfully slowly and carefully opening his arms. She did not have to think twice before she stepped into his warm embrace and accepted the comfort, smiling against the dark-haired elf's chest when she felt Mitsion nudge his way into the hug—not to be left out. At that moment, Thallion was not a warrior or a prince, nor a figure with which to be intimidated. He was merely a brother.

Calaeron smiled at the knot of elves, brought together by a love for their favorite elfling. Legolas could inspire affection and loyalty in even the most unlikely creatures, but the dedication Alarcien and Mitsion showed to their younger friend was truly a wonder. They would go to the ends of the Earth for him, as would most of the kingdom.

No more words were exchanged, but the simple comfort was enough to restore faith in all that Legolas _would_ in fact make it back to them. All they had to do was wait.

* * *

A "few more hours" turned into a few more days for Legolas, though he could no longer tell one hour apart from another. The sky was the ground and the forest floor was the sky, for all he could discern of the world. Nothing made sense. Despite what little he knew of his own physiology, he had developed a fever shortly after splinting his leg and things were no longer as they should be.

At first, the elfling recognized his delirium and begged the trees to do all they could to keep him on his path, encouraging him in one direction or another. When he strayed too far away from the path, they gently redirected him and he took their advice with minimal confusion. He attempted to clean his wounds once or twice, but the pain was too much and he had to stop just to remain conscious, allowing him to make further progress in his quest. He had very little knowledge in the healing arts and knew, because of that, that his wounds would make his journey even more difficult.

But as first one—and then another—day passed, Legolas' grasp on reality faded. He no longer noticed his wounds, it was as though he'd forgotten they were there. He stopped searching for water. And he hadn't listened to the trees in far too long.

"Vere?" He stumbled on unsteady legs, intrigued by a sudden flash of mahogany hair just out of reach. Legolas had been following his brother all day, and still he could not catch him. Faervere was simply too fast! "Wait for me, please!"

The taller figure darted around a thick tree just feet ahead, and Legolas dazedly lurched forward with his hand stretched out in front of him. Sweat rolled down the elfling's temple and his breath escaped him in huffs, but at last! He'd caught him!

Stepping into a clearing that suddenly no longer looked like the same forest, Legolas smiled triumphantly when his glazed, dark-blue eyes met the shining sky blue of Faervere's.

"Why did you run, _Muindor?"_ The elfling questioned, bracing his hands on his knees to catch his breath. "It's been so long since…."

He could not finish the sentence.

Faervere merely gave him a sad smile, stepping closer to Legolas as he did so. The older elf was dressed in a simple brown tunic and leggings, his dark brown hair loose and flowing around his narrow shoulders. Around his waist, he wore something very elegant, something _familiar _to Legolas.

"You found your dagger!" For it was, indeed, the dagger Legolas had lost to the orcs days, or perhaps it was weeks, ago. "Where? How?"

"_Ai, _Legolas," he answered with mischief in his eyes. "But it would not be surprising enough if I told you where I found it. Now, catch me if you can, _Penneth!"_

With that, the older elf darted back into the forest, while the trees shifted with uneasy creaks and groans. They did not see what their elfling chased, and could only listen worriedly as he played with shadows.

As night fell, so did the temperature.

At first, Legolas did not notice how his breath was now coming out in white puffs or how his fingers and toes felt numb. Even as his body shivered, he was sweating with the heat of fever, and so he did not realize that it was too cold for elflings like him. Especially wounded, sick elflings.

He had come to a stop so suddenly, it was like he'd run into an invisible barrier and now was unable to move past it. His shaking legs stopped supporting him and he sank to the ice-coated ground with a delirious giggle. Legolas made patterns in the frost, mesmerized by the glittering of moonlight against the luminescence of the frozen particles. He was nearly sprawled on all fours, laughing at the strange pictures he was creating.

"Pretty…" he trailed off, looking up and seeing Faervere standing just a few feet away. He had changed clothes, now wrapped in a thick cloak and wearing sturdy winter boots and gloves. He approached the elfling, leaving no prints in the frost—though Legolas, in his state, did not notice—and crouched down in front of him.

Faervere's dancing blue eyes were lit with mirth, full of more life now in death than they had been in his living form.

"You are cold, _Penneth,_" he poked at him, shaking his dark-haired head. "You need to move around."

Legolas grumbled in dissent.

"Legolas," Faervere sighed. Then, quicker than the elfling could follow, his eyes lit back up. "Did anyone ever tell you of the Great Winter before you were born?"

The younger prince shook his head, eager for a story from the best storyteller he had ever known.

"It was a little over three decades before you were born, and it was the coldest winter anyone could ever remember. But the worst part was that we were unprepared," Faervere shivered with the mere memory of it. "All three of us—that is, Cal, Thall, and me—were on patrols in the south. This was before the south was as perilous as you know it today. Anyway, we were on patrol when the storm hit.

"When we realized just how dangerous the storm was, it was already too late. It hit late at night and many elves perished because they simply faded in their sleep."

Legolas was struck with sadness at the thought of strong, capable warriors dying in their sleep solely because they were not awake to compel their bodies to hold on.

"The air was so cold that others caught a vicious cough that stole their breaths and took many more before we even made it back to the palace. Thallion's warriors made it back first and his numbers were the least depleted, he only lost eight soldiers. But his hands were damaged by severe frostbite and he caught the cough. To this day, I don't think our brother ever feels like his hands are warm.

"Calaeron's patrol returned midday, hours after Thallion's and in much worse shape. He lost the most warriors, some in the night and most from the cough. Cal caught it, too, and was sicker than I've ever seen him. They did not think he would survive, and he very nearly didn't."

Legolas was mesmerized, the chill surrounding him now completely forgotten.

"And you?" He urged. "What of you, _Muindor?"_

The darker-haired elf smiled, taking both of Legolas' hands and pulling him to his now-numb feet.

"I returned last, free of the cough but with feet so frostbitten that they told me I might never walk again. But I disagreed with that assessment, so here we are."

Now that he was upright, Legolas felt a little warmer. He still shook and trembled, but it was better than before. If he could just keep Faervere from wandering off, then all would be well. Even a moment of hesitation would cost him Faervere's company, which he only just realized was exactly what happened as soon as Legolas had his bearings.

Looking around, his breath fogging in front of him, the older elf was nowhere to be seen.

He stumbled forward yet again, eager to find his wayward brother. All of the chasing and searching was getting frustrating, but he would do it over and over just to see him even one more time.

"Where has he gone?" He mumbled to the trees, reaching out and steadying himself against the nearest one.

"_Who, _tithen las? _There is no one there."_

The trees were suddenly very unhelpful to Legolas, but maybe they did not understand the urgency of finding the older elf? Perhaps they thought it to be a game, like hide and seek, and Faervere had asked them to keep him hidden. It would explain their reluctance to participate in his search.

He stumbled forward on weakened legs, following a trail that had gone cold too quickly. But at least he was moving again, which was a feat that seemed impossible at this point in his delirium. Perhaps Legolas would find Faervere again and everything would right itself once more? But then, the elfling tripped over a root—or maybe it was his own feet—and collapsed to the ground with a half-sob mixed with a feverish laugh. He blinked and suddenly, it was morning. And then he blinked again and it was midday.

Where was he?

By then, the trees could do nothing but weep as they watched their little leaf shrivel and fall. No amount of begging or comfort could be offered to catch the child's attention and they were beyond helpless to save him.

And that was the worst of all.

* * *

Light gray eyes swept across the fallen leaves, narrowing in focus to pick up on the disturbance that could be felt heavily in the air. The trees were agitated, rustling and waving in a breeze of their own imagination. The forest was alive with tension, forming a cacophony of uneasy rustling and the nerve-filled swaying of leaves and limb.

A dark-haired elf knelt to the ground, dragging slender fingers through crumbled leaves and depressions in the dirt. He looked up into a pair of eyes identical to his, frowning into a face he knew better than any other.

"I think we're close," the elf said. "Whoever we're following is clearly very unwell, their tracks are becoming harder to make sense of. But we're definitely close."

The first elf nodded to the second and knelt beside his companion to observe his findings.

The twin sons of Elrond—Elladan and Elrohir—had been away from home for a few weeks hunting with the Dunedain. They came across a party of orcs fleeing from the direction of Mirkwood a few days prior, wounded and slow from a recent battle. After dispatching the orcs, they discovered the disjointed tracks that they were now following.

Breaking away from their group of Rangers, the two elves went off on their own to follow the tracks. From the size, shape, and depth of the footprints, they believed they were pursuing a rather young elf. Perhaps he or she had been wounded by the party of orcs and had become separated from their fellow warriors.

It was times like these that they wished they could converse with the trees like their woodland kin. However, they knew they were close based solely upon the increased agitation of the trees. The closer to their target, the more distressed the wood became.

Suddenly, both elves were on their guard as they rounded a close copse of trees. The air was filled with the sounds of a stumbling rustle, accented by the occasional sniffle and gasp. The _Peredhel _looked at each other, silently communicating their thoughts with a weighted glance.

"_Approach slowly."_

Elrohir lowered to a crouch while Elladan readied his sword, never one to be ill-prepared for surprises. They had enough experience in the forests surrounding the Hidden Valley to know that a sniffle wasn't always a sniffle.

But this time, there was nothing to deceive them when they came upon their query. Standing there, trembling like a leaf ready to let loose into the wind, was a slender blonde elfling. Legolas had been found, at last.

Lowering his sword, Elladan motioned his twin forward. Of the two, Elrohir was the more compassionate twin—he could comfort the spines off a hedgehog, if he were so inclined.

Elrohir approached the youngling much like one would a startled foal, slowly and with his hands open and nonthreatening. He measured every step, careful not to make too much noise should they frighten him away.

Glazed blue eyes meet Elrohir's, full of confusion and a clear delirium that even one without knowledge of the healing arts could detect. The child was very ill, indeed, and needed help promptly. Had his wounds been treated properly, the young elf would not have fallen into such a state, lending more truth to the assumption that he was alone in the woods.

"Hello, little one," Elrohir soothed. "You're safe, we won't hurt you."

The elfling tilted his head, intrigued at the strange elves. There were two of them! Either he was seeing double, or there was something very unique about the elves, for he had never seen identical elves before. Had he been in his right mind, he would have known who they were from the moment he saw them—his brothers had spoken of them often and he knew that he would most likely encounter them at some point in his travels.

As it was, Legolas was confused but interested enough not to be scared away easily.

"His ankle," Elrohir whispered behind him to his brother, approaching cautiously with his hands still raised in front of him. The bindings holding the elfling's ankle were soaked in dirt and blood, still sturdy but far too filthy to be effective any longer.

Legolas swayed, freezing the twins momentarily until he regained his balance and stumbled forward three unsteady steps. His eyes kept focusing and un-focusing, causing the world to become a dizzying mixture of swirling blurs and sharp, clear colors. The twins became quadruplets and then twins once more. It was amusing and terrifying at the same time, eliciting confused giggles and broken sobs.

"Come here, _Penneth," _Elrohir encouraged, his hands aching to grab the child and keep him from collapsing onto the forest floor as his body clearly wanted to do. "It is all right."

Two more steps and his fevered, shaking frame could go no more. His broken ankle gave out, bringing an agonized cry from dry, cracked lips. Elrohir acted quickly, jumping forward and catching the thin frame less than a foot from the ground, gently lowering him the rest of the way.

"_Ai, _he's burning up!"

Elladan crouched beside them, pulling out a water skin and lifting it gently to the child's lips, allowing him to gulp greedily—but slowly—at the precious liquid. He then poured a few drops onto his pale forehead, receiving a relieved hum.

Elrohir felt a sudden, overpowering wave of protectiveness crash into him and he held the child tighter. Something terrible had happened to the elfling, and it was not just the wounds they could see. His instincts were crying out to this little blonde. Sensing his brother's concern, Elladan reached for the bindings around Legolas' ankle and peeled them away carefully. He had to admit, the child did a remarkable job splinting the break and were it not for the infection, he likely could have continued on thusly.

Working quickly, the twins tended to Legolas with sure movements and gentle care. They both felt a similar urge to shelter the child and, while they didn't know the reason, they had learned to trust their feelings above all else.

It did not take long to clean the wound before the trio of elves began their journey back to _Imladris._

* * *

**As always, reviews are much appreciated! Thank you again to everyone who has read and reviewed this story! Just two chapters left!**

**-FiTS**


	8. Chapter 8

**In response to a recent guest review:**

**Thank you for your honest review, I really appreciate it and will work to amend a few phrases in the prior chapter to reflect my intentions further. I am always glad to see readers expressing their opinions, or knowledge, so that my works can benefit from additional information. Please, enjoy the final two chapters of my story.**

**-FiTS**

* * *

A gentle breeze blew a strand of blond hair across pale cheeks, but was soon brushed away by a soft, warm hand. As soon as the lock was returned to its place, the hand carded through the rest of his hair, applying a light pressure to his scalp that was sending waves of comfort through him.

He sighed, pushing his head against the hand as though begging for more, and he was soon rewarded with another pass through his hair. Someone was singing, he realized next. It had to be the person sitting with him, the person who was stroking his hair. The voice, a woman's, was soft and low and so very soothing, singing in a language he distantly recognized but didn't quite understand.

"_Nana?"_

His voice was weak and brittle, scratching up through his throat painfully and he winced, calling out for her a second time. The hand froze in his hair, her song ending abruptly as another hand rested on his cheek.

"No, little one," the voice soothed sadly. "I am not your _Naneth"_

Never had five words hurt so terribly as they did just then. Legolas pried his eyes open, unaware that they were ever closed, and saw who the voice belonged to.

She was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, with long blond waves and large grey eyes that reflected more light than the stillest waters on the sunniest of days. She had full lips that were drawn into a concerned pout, and her forehead was creased with the slightest hint of worry.

"Hello, child," she ran long fingers through his hair again, smiling with a very calm, motherly face that seemed to tickle at buried memories of a dark-haired _elleth_ who wore the exact same expression. "You're safe now, you can rest."

He leaned into her hand again, accepting the comfort she kept offering, though something was nagging at the back of his mind like an itch he just couldn't reach. He was forgetting some important thought, but his brain was just not functioning the way it was supposed to. The elfling very much doubted he could say his own name at the moment, let alone remember a pressing fact.

His eyes started glazing back over with sleep again when one name slammed to the front of his mind: Faervere.

"My brother! He's still out there, you have to find him!"

It was as though he had been shocked, he felt so frantic with the realization. Faervere was still out there! He pushed both hands to the bed underneath him and tried to sit up, startling the woman with his sudden burst of hysterical energy. His heart raced and he stared into her face with wide, fearful eyes. Such was his fear, that the woman felt the same trickle of fear enter her veins. Had her sons forgotten someone in their haste to bring the child to the Last Homely House?

"Hush now, _Penneth,"_ she assured him, placing both hands on the sides of his face in order to focus his attention back on her. "I will have my sons head back into the forest to look for him, I promise. But you must rest now, little one."

Legolas let out a relieved huff of air, suddenly overcome with exhaustion at her words. He sank back to the bed, boneless now that the adrenaline was fading, and let his eyes roam around the room for a moment.

The elfling was shocked to realize that it wasn't a _room_ in the strictest sense of the word, since it was missing an entire wall. The back of the room opened up to nature itself, where a waterfall—was it a waterfall if it was partially indoors?—cascaded across one half of the open space. Leaves were spread across the stone floor, mixed with a few vines that stubbornly refused to be contained.

He could smell water, and dirt, and _life_ from where he laid on a soft, warm bed. It was so open and bright, compared to the dark and damp halls of his home. Legolas could hear the trees humming so many different tunes that they melded together to form one large, soothing song.

"Where am I?"

The _elleth_ smiled, readjusting his blanket and tucking it more securely around him.

"You are in _Imladris,_ sweet child, and you seem to have traveled a long way for one so young," she smoothed down his hair and took one of his hands. "I am Celebrian, you were brought here early yesterday morning by my two sons, Elladan and Elrohir."

"You're the _Lady of Imladris?" _Legolas allowed the feeling of awe to wash over him. This was the only daughter of Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn! Which meant that he was rescued by the sons of Elrond, his brothers' friends!

Celebrian merely laughed musically, gently squeezing his hand in hers.

"And now I am at a disadvantage, for I know not who it is I'm speaking to." He was suddenly overcome with shame, his ears turning pink at the thought of offending such a formidable lady. Where had his manners gone! Sensing his discomfort, she quickly amended her statement. "I am only jesting, _Penneth."_

"Oh," he sighed, relieved that he had not made her angry. "I'm Legolas Thranduilion, of the Woodland Realm. I came to _Imladris_ to complete a quest to save my kingdom."

Celebrian was taken aback by the seriousness of the elfling's words, struck with worry yet again, but for a different reason this time. Word had reached them not long ago about a great tragedy befalling the Woodland, but they had received no details for what exactly that was. She knew it had something to do with the royal family, Elrond had "seen" that much, but the finer points were still to be determined.

"_Mae govannen, _Legolas," she began. "Allow me to welcome you to _Imladris. _Your words bear a great deal, and I must fetch my husband and sons so that they may hear what you have to say. Please rest in the meantime, I assure you that I'll hurry back with them."

Legolas nodded, understanding that diplomacy was needed based on the way she worded her statement. But as important as he knew it was to address Lord Elrond as soon as possible, he couldn't help but selfishly wish she would stay and keep him company.

Celebrian stood, carefully placing his hand back down to the bed and smoothing the blanket one more time before turning and exiting the room in a hurry. The lady was concerned about Legolas, especially with how frantic he had become once he remembered his brother. Which brother could he be referring to? She wondered.

Surely the child hadn't traveled all that way by himself?

But she was reminded of words her sons had relayed when the elfling was found. Both Elladan and Elrohir assured their father that Legolas was alone, that there was no sign of another with him. The way he was traveling, as well as his lack of provisions or knowledge of medical care, suggested that he was either separated from a small group or he was on his own the entire journey.

And she didn't miss the grief and loneliness that was wrapped around the little one like a wet cloak, cold and lacking any signs of comfort. The way he had seemed to crave her contact, and how he'd called out for his mother.

Oh, Lanthir! Surely she was all right!

Celebrian hadn't seen her dear friend in far too long, but the queen had always been so happy to see her whenever they were able to partake in each other's company. It was always as though no time had passed, they just seemed to pick up where they left off from their last visit and could continue on that way forever.

The other woman's support had been especially appreciated when Celebrian and Elrond welcomed their daughter Arwen into the world. It had been controversial, bringing an elfling into a world so uncertain, but it hadn't been as shocking as the birth of Legolas. Lanthir was able to offer sound advice that kept the lady from losing her mind during such a trying time.

Celebrian had word sent to Elrond and her sons, wringing her hands with an almost-nervous energy as she waited. In the meantime, she called for a small meal to be brought to the healing chambers, for surely Legolas would be starving! Who knew how long it had been since his last meal. It felt like no time at all when Elrond arrived, with Elrohir only moments behind him.

"How is he?" Elrond placed a hand on her shoulder, earning an anxious smile from his wife. "Has he woken?"

"_Ai, _he has," she sighed. "He was rather confused at first, but grew more lucid the longer he was awake. He called for his mother, and was very saddened when he realized she was not there. He became frantic and mentioned a brother?"

She turned to Elrohir, who seemed to startle at the news.

"There was no other with him, we were sure," both his brows furrowed, worry overtaking the curiosity that had before been written across his face.

"He is Legolas Thranduilion."

Celebrian did not have to even finish her sentence for both their faces to pale in surprise, Elrohir's especially. She exchanged grave looks with her husband, allowing the fear to pool into her eyes. She knew that whatever the elfling had to say was very serious, indeed.

"Then we should not keep him waiting."

The lady placed one hand on Elrohir's back as she walked into the room again, fixing an open smile on her face to disguise the trepidation that coursed through her entire body. It would not do for Legolas to pick up on any negativity coming from her, for he had enough to deal with as it was.

He was barely awake, but became very attentive the moment the three elves entered the room. Legolas sat up the best he could, nervously smoothing his blanket down and fixing the calmest look upon his face that he could muster. His effort was endearing, and a little saddening, to Celebrian. No child his age should ever have to try to look so old.

"_Mae govannen, _Prince Legolas," Elrond greeted the child warmly, seating himself next to the elfling's side and taking one hand into his own. "It is a rarity to have a wood elf in our lands, but even more so to have a son of Thranduil."

"_Mae govannen, _Lord Elrond," Legolas answered dutifully and with very little hesitation. "I apologize for entering your lands unannounced, but it was a matter of life and death. I'm afraid it could not wait; we have lost too many already."

His young voice took on an edge that would have surprised any but Elrond.

"Who have you lost, little one?"

It was Elrohir who asked, his voice wavering in a way only his parents recognized. He was afraid for his friends, the elder princes of Mirkwood, and he could not bear to wait much longer. He only wished his brother weren't running late, for Elladan's support would have been most welcome.

"My brother, Faervere," he began, and Elrohir immediately squeezed his eyes shut in pain. "And my-my _Naneth."_

"No…"

Celebrian whispered, unable to get enough volume out around the lump in her throat. She placed a hand against her chest, overcome with a wave of sorrow for the loss of a very dear friend. But in learning of this loss, she came to hurt even more for the brave—motherless—elfling in front of her.

She immediately came forward and sat on his other side, taking his free hand and squeezing it gently in both of her own.

"Was there another with you on this journey, Legolas?"

Elrond continued, though he suspected that perhaps the child had imagined the "brother" following him through the forest. The height of the boy's fever when he had first been brought to them could definitely have caused hallucinations.

"I thought—" Legolas swallowed, blinking away tears that he refused to let fall. "I thought I was following Faervere. He looked so real, and I missed him so much."

Nodding, Elrond patted the hand he was holding before letting it go and placing one of his own against the child's brow to check for fever. It had been stubborn at first, due to the lack of initial treatment, but Elrond's skilled hand broke the fever shortly after his arrival. Mercifully, the blond was only a little warm and the likelihood of further illness was next to nothing.

"You were very ill," the healer explained, standing and lifting the blanket from Legolas' previously injured ankle. Until that moment, Legolas had all but forgotten about the wolves and his shattered leg bones. Even so, Elrond was very gentle as he checked the bandages that were wrapped around the wound. So gentle, in fact, that he barely felt more than a twinge of pain in the still-wounded limb. "It is not uncommon for a fever to create that which we wish most to see. You are rather fortunate, however, that your fever-induced vision of Faervere was kind enough to lead you to my sons and not on a 'more exciting' adventure of his own."

For the first time, Legolas laughed. It was true. If it _had_ really been Faervere, the older elf would have led him halfway across the land before laughing and declaring that they had gone the wrong way the entire journey.

"Rest now, Legolas," Elrond assured him. "Heal a little more and then we will discuss why you have traveled so far over perilous lands on your own."

The regal lord stood then, patting Legolas on the arm, before motioning for Elrohir to follow him. Once the two had left, Celebrian resumed running her hand through his hair, silencing any protest the boy may have had.

And for once, Legolas drifted off without a care in his mind.

* * *

Legolas woke very slowly the next time, reaching up and rubbing his eyes sleepily before looking around at his surroundings. He was not surprised to find that he was not alone in Elrond's healing chamber—he had yet to wake completely by himself. This time, there was a tiny _elleth_ keeping him company, and she was the most beautiful thing Legolas had ever laid eyes on. She had long, silken hair the color of night and large, gray eyes as bright as the stars in the sky.

"Hello!"

All Legolas could do was stare. To his absolute astonishment, she was younger than him—he had never met _anyone _who wasyounger than him!

"My _Ada _said I was not allowed to trouble you, but I don't have to worry now that you're awake!" Her musical voice tickled his ears with its buoyancy, trilling through the air more elegantly than the softest of birdsong. "I'm Arwen."

"Legolas," he whispered, still awestruck by the angelic creature sitting at his bedside. The younger elfling didn't seem to notice his distraction, and she swung her legs back and forth in excitement. Arwen all but vibrated in the chair, she was so full of energy and life.

"My _Ada _says you are a prince?" Legolas nodded. "Wow! A real prince? My _Ada _and _Nana _are a Lord and a Lady, but I've never met a real prince!"

The Thranduilion could not help but laugh at her proclamation, for he did not _feel _any different than this _elleth_. If anything, he was a lesser royal than she! At least Arwen was not responsible for the deaths of her brothers or the fall of her kingdom. And while he knew he was being melodramatic, he could not help how he felt. And what he felt was a strong sense of failure.

"Do not be sad," Arwen leaned forward and fixed Legolas with her large, round gray eyes. All of a sudden, her voice had changed—it aged and took on a strange, heavy timbre. "All will be well, Legolas. Now, and in dark times to come."

_What_ was this beautiful creature?

"Arwen…" The _elleth_ startled as she was addressed by Lord Elrond himself, who had entered the room without either elfling noticing his arrival, and the strange spell lifted from the space. "Have I not asked you to leave our guest be so that he may rest?"

Wordlessly, Arwen slid from her seat and stood before her father, nodding slightly and looking down at her feet. "Yes, _Ada."_

"Then run along," he gently commanded. "Find your mother, I believe she has been looking for you."

Then, as suddenly as she had appeared, she ran off just as quickly and took all of the starlight with her.

"Please excuse my daughter, Legolas," Elrond smiled warmly, taking the seat Arwen had just hopped out of. "She has such energy, but she also has much of her _Daernaneth _in her. Her grandmother, The Lady Galadriel, has the tendency to speak in ways that seem to cut through even the deepest fog of doubt."

Legolas nodded, still unnerved by the strangeness of what had just happened. It was as though Arwen had seen right through him, her starlight eyes unseeing for but a moment as she stared at something that was beyond the two elflings.

"Get some more rest, Legolas."

With that, Elrond patted his hand, rose elegantly from the chair, and appeared to simply glide from the room to leave Legolas in peace. He did that a lot, it seemed.

Legolas breathed in deeply, feeling refreshed by the cool, crisp air that flowed freely throughout the bright healing chambers. He would never get over how different their two realms were. Where Mirkwood was all wood and stone, as most of the palace was underground, _Imladris _was nothing but open air and nature in its rawest, most magical form.

He had to admit that it was peaceful, serene even, here. But the more open air he smelled and birdsong he heard and subtle mist he felt from the many beautiful waterfalls—the more he missed home. The more he craved the cold chill of the halls, balanced perfectly by the warmth of a flickering fire in a well-used hearth.

"May we join you, young one?"

Two identical, smiling faces shone from just inside the open doorway that Lord Elrond had exited not but a few minutes ago. Elladan and Elrohir did not enter the room yet, while they awaited permission from the recovering prince. Legolas thought it strange, since it was _their_ home, but the elves of _Imladris_ respected personal boundaries a great deal.

Legolas nodded wordlessly, still wrapped in his sullen, somber musings. He was in a poor mood, and not even the joyful humor of the dark-haired twins could lift it.

Elladan sat in the chair at Legolas' bedside, while Elrohir bent over the elfling's form and gently took his wrist—no doubt to check his pulse. When he was seemingly satisfied with his findings, Elrohir stood back up and leaned with one arm on Elladan's shoulder. Dual sets of light gray eyes searched Legolas with concern.

"What is troubling you, Legolas?" Elladan asked, his fair face marred with worry.

"I-It's just," he hesitated, unsure why he was feeling such heavy anxiety rising within himself more as each second passed. "I'm…afraid."

The brothers shared a hesitant look, hoping that they—or their home—were not the cause for the elfling's distress. Ever since they discovered him in the wood, mad with fever and dehydration, they felt very protective of the young blond. It wasn't the fact that they knew his brothers, or that they were grieving the loss of their old friend, Faervere. It felt like something more, a deeper kinship than they could explain. They simply knew that this elf was _worth_ protecting.

"You have nothing to be afraid of," Elrohir soothed, reaching out and laying a much larger hand over the elfling's.

"Not here. I'm not afraid here, it's…well…."

"Go on, it's all right."

Elrohir squeezed the small hand, smiling encouragingly.

"In the forest, there were orcs," Legolas shivered. "Before the rain, and before the wolves. I was on the ground when I smelled them, so I climbed a tree as fast as I could. I lost Faervere's dagger, the beautiful one with the bone hilt, they found it in my pack and I couldn't do anything. There weren't many, and they were all hurt and angry. They—they talked about a battle, and-and-and…" he swallowed around a lump in his throat. "They said they killed him!"

The twin sons of Elrond paled immediately, Elladan sitting up straighter and Elrohir stiffening in surprise. They stared at the elfling with identical looks of fear. Tears were streaming down the young elf's face and he was shaking like a leaf, looking as though he had just seen a ghost.

"Who, Legolas? Who did they say they killed?"

Elladan wrung his hands nervously, unsure if he wanted the answer.

"Thall! They were mad, they were furious! But they were laughing, too. They said his warriors would have to bring him home in p-p-pieces! But they can't, it's not fair! I can't lose him too!" He wailed hysterically, pulling his hand out from under Elrohir's to bury his face in both of his own. "I've lost everyone! _Nana_ and Faervere—now Thallion is dead. And probably Cal, too. And it's all my fault!"

"Oh, Legolas."

The brothers rushed forward, settling themselves onto the bed on either side of the elfling and wrapping their long arms around his shaking body. Legolas buried his face in the closest Elrondian's shoulder, so Elladan rocked the child back and forth while Elrohir rubbed his back from beside them.

"You don't know that he's gone, _Penneth,"_ Elrohir assured. "Orcs are cruelly amused by pain, and they will laugh at even the slightest wound. You said they were angry?" Legolas nodded against Elladan's chest. "Well, they will take the smallest detail and build it up with their words until they have turned a papercut into a fatal wound."

"They are disgusting creatures, Legolas," Elladan added. "And they take pleasure in the plight of other living things. They tell tales to bolster their own egos. And if we know your brothers like we do, then I am sure they are _both_ well. It is likely Thallion was only merely wounded—probably not even very seriously—and the orcs twisted the story in their own evil, miserable way."

"Thallion is a very strong elf," Elrohir smiled, remembering his own encounters with the sturdy Avar. "He earned one of those precious braids of his right here in _Imladris_. And when you get home, you'll have to ask him all about it. Okay?"

Legolas let out a watery laugh, sniffling softly and nodding into the warm fabric of Elladan's tunic. He wanted to believe the twins, but he still heard that voice in the back of his mind that whispered _'all your fault!' _over and over again. And there was only one thing that would convince him otherwise.

Going home.

But his task in _Imladris_ was not finished, nowhere near in fact. And he had a lot more work to do before he would be able to return to his home, and to his family. But until then, at least he had Elladan and Elrohir to offer him comfort.

And that was…nice. Very nice, indeed.

* * *

Legolas settled into a routine over the next few days. In the mornings, he was awakened by Elrond checking his wounds before Arwen would bound in like the sun after a heavy storm. It had become her self-appointed "job" to eat breakfast with him, ensuring the older elf actually ate his food. She told him stories and was generally pleasant, if not overly excitable, company. After a short nap, the twins joined him for lunch. They regaled him with tales of his brothers' times in Imladris, including stories of battle as well as tales of mischief. Faervere, it seemed, was responsible for getting the twins into more trouble than they could get themselves out of. In the evening, Celebrian sat with him. Sometimes she would read, other times she would sing. A few times, she had told him stories about his mother.

In all, Legolas was allowed several days to recover. But by the time he was more lucid and regained energy, he was growing anxious to address Elrond and his council to formally request their aid. As much as he was enjoying the momentary peace, he had a mission to fulfill.

Before he could even insist upon it, Elrond promised him time during the next council—first thing in the morning. Remembering the hurried lessons on etiquette that Thallion had rushed through, as well as his own observations during the Mirkwood council, Legolas went over the words in his head.

Finally, quicker than Legolas ever imagined, it was time for the council session. It was a bittersweet moment, standing outside of Lord Elrond's council hall—if one could call such an open space a hall—ready to deliver his request.

He had been assigned a page to assist him in getting to the council itself, helping him walk and making sure that he was comfortable and prepared. At first, Legolas wanted to refuse the aid. If he was going to make a case to all of _Imladris' _leaders, he would do so on both feet!

But he came to the realization that the act of accomplishing the task was a lot more important than _how_ he accomplished it. The elfling figured the Lost Twelve would have understood if he needed someone's assistance to walk into the council. After all, they had made the ultimate sacrifice so he could afford to _lean_ outside the assembly. He would have crawled if he had to.

"Are you ready, _hir nin?" _Raef, the kindly page, held out both hands so he could help him stand upright and adjust both his tunic and hair. The other elf did his tasks so quickly and respectfully that Legolas hardly noticed the nitpicking. He merely took several long, deep breaths and pictured the regality his father typically entered a room with. Thranduil wore his elegance like a long, flowing cloak. The Elvenking's entire being radiated grace in such an effortless way.

Legolas lifted his chin and allowed as much of his father's elegance to drape over his shoulders, breathing in deeply once more and accepting the firm support Raef offered him. And then, with his head held high, he entered the chamber.

Birdsong and the light trickling of flowing water met his ears, melding into the air around him and creating a comforting buffer. Elves he knew, and many more he didn't, were all seated in a loose circle around a stone slab. There wasn't a clear distinction of power like in the council at home, but Lord Elrond still commanded a certain air of respect around him.

All eyes were on Legolas, but he focused on the gentle support of the elf at his side, guiding him to a low chair just a few spaces down from Elladan and Elrohir. They caught his attention briefly and offered him twin smiles of reassurance, to which Legolas ducked his head to hide a shy smile in return.

Unlike the emergency session at home, this meeting was planned specifically for Legolas. He was the guest of honor, instead of just a meek observer. He wasn't only representing himself, or even his home, but the families and memories of twelve brave elves who sacrificed everything for their kingdom.

Elrond opened the gathering with a round of introductions, beginning with himself and working his way around. Elves like the twin sons of Elrond, Legolas already knew. Other names were familiar to Legolas through stories that Elladan and Elrohir had told him, and even stories from his brothers. Elves like Erestor and Glorfindel.

Lord Glorfindel, _Ai Valar! _Legolas had to fight to contain his childish excitement.

But soon, the introductions were reaching a close, and it was his turn to speak. He stood, grateful for Raef's steadying hand at his elbow, and poured every ounce of confidence into his speech.

"I am Prince Legolas Thranduilion, of the Woodland Realm," he breathed steadily, ignoring the nerve-induced chill at the tips of his fingers and the dryness in his mouth. "And I am here to save my home, and all who dwell there, from unrelenting darkness."

Encouraged by a surprised, and dare he hope _impressed_ nod from Lord Elrond himself, Legolas plowed on. He could no longer waste time, and so he continued with as much blunt honesty and sincerity as he could muster.

"I am here not only for my brothers and my father, not even just for my princes and my king. But for twelve lost warriors, like Caranel and Malrin, Nimben and Hathol, who gave their lives so that our kingdom may live. For hard working elves like Limbon, Nerciel, Lumornel, and Halioth, so that we may continue to prosper as one cohesive people. For friends like Alarcien and Mitsion, Lanyarion and Elhael, who keep us on our feet and remind us that we have so much to be thankful for.

"My people are struggling, and we can no longer sacrifice good elves to this darkness. My own mother, the Queen of the Woodland Realm, and my brother the Prince Faervere, lost their lives on a quest to your lands in the hopes that we may seek aid from your good people."

Sharp intakes of breath from more than one elf froze Legolas for the briefest of moments, and he took that interruption to meet the gazes of many elders, letting his every emotion fuel the fire in his eyes. He had their attention, no doubt about it.

"We have waited too long and can wait no longer," he stressed. "I knew it was a risk, and a foolish one too, leaving the last bit of safety behind and setting out on the same journey that claimed my mother and brother, but I felt it was my duty to complete the task for which they lost their lives.

"We need your aid, or we will slip into a shadow that no amount of light could ever illuminate. And what little is left of our people will be lost forever."

Legolas remained standing for a few moments longer, clinging to the breath hanging in the air like a leaf desperate to be the last to fall, until finally he gave and took his seat. It was done, no matter what the outcome. He had accomplished what he set out to do, and it was now up to the elders of _Imladris _to decide their fate.

He just hoped he could live with their decision.

* * *

The cold hunk of nervousness settling in Legolas' stomach morphed into a warm pool of relief when the council gave their verdict. It was to the young prince's great joy that they agreed—unanimously, no less—to lend whatever aid the wood elves required.

Elrond decreed that his sons, Elladan and Elrohir, would lead a party of elves back to Mirkwood. In that party would be a great number of warriors, as well as healers, cooks, quartermasters, and scholars, all tasked with offering the Woodland Realm whatever aid they could.

The number of warriors would be enough to relieve several guards of Mirkwood warriors, such that they could take short leaves and recover their strength in ways they hadn't been able in years. Their parties were stretched thin, and _Imladris_ would fill in the gaps.

It was more than Legolas could have ever hoped for; in his wildest dreams he had never imagined that he could bring such a gift to his people—or to his family. It would almost be worth the pain, the heartbreak, and the overwhelming loss his father and brothers had to be battling. If they all survived this ordeal, Legolas would fall to his knees and thank the _Valar_ from the ends of his toes to the tips of his ears.

And he would never put them through such a thing again.

Too soon, and yet not soon enough, his time in _Imladris _was at an end. Just three days after the council, he was leaving with the relief party. Everything leading up to his arrival at the Homely House had been tiresome, arduous and slow and filled with peril. But now that it was over, he felt almost rushed. It was as though time had sped up once his task was complete and he couldn't help but think that after everything, after the heartbreak of leaving home and the loneliness of travel and the absolute agony of the wolf attack, that it felt almost too easy. Too quick.

Legolas did not want to admit it, but bidding farewell to Lord Elrond, Lady Celebrian, and the young Lady Arwen were some of the most difficult things he had to do. In such a short time, he had grown close to them, and all of _Imladris_ indeed.

Arwen cried, laughing through tears as she wished him well, and clung to her mother's skirts. Celebrian, too, cried for the young blond as she was forced to part from the boy. The Lady of the Hidden Valley had grown fond of him, that motherly ache had been triggered deep within, and she longed to hug him just one more time.

Even Elrond seemed to be blinking a few too many times, placing both hands on the prince's shoulders and bidding him safe travels in the weeks to come. While the circumstances surrounding their time with the youngest son of Thranduil were very dire indeed, they had cherished the moments they had with him and hoped, one day, to see him once more.

Legolas left _Imladris_ with a new sense of purpose and a fierce determination to see all of the shadow eradicated from his beloved home.

* * *

The journey home was much more pleasant for Legolas, and he found himself enjoying the travel more than he expected. With such a large force of elves, danger was at a minimum and the young elf could pay better attention to his surroundings than he ever had on his way through the first time.

Everything seemed slightly brighter, and he couldn't help but notice that the trees seemed to perk up in their presence. It was as though a little bit of life had weaved itself back into the forest—Legolas wondered whether it was just his own wishful thinking, or if it was reality.

Elladan and Elrohir made the journey especially interesting. Between their ridiculous pranks, mixed with a generous helping of survival tips, Legolas was kept entertained the entire way. He could say with certainty that he was absolutely not lonely this time around.

Elrohir was definitely the more serious of the two, and he spent a lot of time teaching Legolas various hand-to-hand combat moves—something the younger elf had always wanted to try, but was too afraid of being told no. They had to be wary of his ankle, which was still sore and hurt if he overused it, but Legolas already felt as though he was learning a great deal. Both brothers assured him that it would feel better in just a few short weeks, anyway.

The thought of seeing his family again was almost surreal, and Legolas sometimes wondered when he would wake up on the forest floor and realize that it had all been a fever dream brought on by the wolf attack.

He felt different, that was one thing he was certain of. The elfling couldn't pinpoint exactly what about himself had changed, and he wondered if perhaps it was everything about him that had been altered by the experience. Could he say that he had learned a great deal about surviving in the forest? No, he felt that the only thing he understood was what a wolf's jaws felt like when they clamped around living flesh.

But that wasn't a fair point, and he berated himself often for it.

Legolas learned how to trust the trees, and how to use their height to his advantage. Even with the large party of elves, the woodland elf found himself wanting to climb into the trees above their heads and travel the rest of the way there.

He had learned how to be resourceful, even being as limited in knowledge as he was.

But more than anything, he had learned the value of determination. For he knew in his heart that there was no way he would ever have made to _Imladris_ if he had not relied so heavily on his motivation to get there.

The hardest part was over… everything after was an added bonus.

* * *

**Just one more chapter left. Thank you so much for reading and reviewing!****-FiTS**


	9. Chapter 9

**Thank you so much for reading this, I always appreciate every single view. As an avid FanFic reader myself, I can appreciate every one of you who has come this far with me. I already have a sequel planned, but life tends to get in the way and stress makes it hard to sit down and write. I'm sorry this took so long for me to complete and publish. Until next time, folks!**

**Here is the final chapter of From Darkness, the Light Shines.**

**-FiTS**

* * *

His resolve was so brittle it felt like it could crack and break apart with every word, but Calaeron pressed on as he wrote and re-wrote orders for defensive patrols. In the almost three months since the loss—disappearance, he mentally corrected—of his youngest brother, Legolas, the crown prince had never felt so stretched beyond his means.

He has known exhaustion and _Valar _knows he was well-acquainted with grief… but this wild desperation had pushed him beyond even his deepest reserves of energy and motivation. It was only Thallion's equally-crazed determination that kept him going. His brother was just as fatigued as he, shouldering more of the kingdom's responsibilities than he ever had before.

The Elvenking was not himself, and so Calaeron and Thallion took it upon themselves to keep the wheels turning on his behalf.

No one could say that Thranduil was not performing his kingly duties to the utmost perfection, for that would be a grave lie. But as soon as his tasks were complete, he would shut down and close himself away to the point of seclusion. Neither prince had spoken more than a few words to their father in days.

Calaeron could feel the guilt radiating off the king in palpable waves. To look at his eldest sons, alive and within his sight, reminded him too much that his youngest was nowhere to be seen and so, he avoided the two princes as much as possible. And Calaeron could not blame him in the least.

It did not, however, make things any easier. After losing their _Naneth _and Faervere, the royal family had clung to each other with everything they had. But this latest tragedy broke them in ways never before imagined.

"Maybe we should take a break?"

Hrávo, who was really more of a close friend than a simple captain, eyed him with mounting concern. Calaeron felt guilt wash through him, especially since he was the one who had requested the captain's presence in the first place. It was Hrávo's guard he was hoping to reconfigure so that he could offer them a little more time to rest and recover, something which _none _of the guards had really been able to do. But among those remaining, Hrávo's and Thallion's had been on active duty the longest.

"I apologize, _mellon,_" he laid down his quill and rang long fingers through his blond strands, sighing deeply. "I just need a moment to refocus, that's all."

Hrávo did not say anything, merely nodding at his prince with an open expression as though saying, _'go ahead.'_ Calaeron smiled in thanks, shaking his head slightly and taking a few long breaths. When he felt like he had cleared his head enough to continue, he took up the quill again and leaned over the orders.

But whatever he was about to write was suddenly interrupted by commotion in the hall just outside his study.

Thallion burst in, dragging a surprised-looking young _elleth _behind him. He was out of breath, his face flushed and his chest heaving, but the hopeful light in his eyes caused Calaeron to sit up immediately.

"Tell him what you've just told me," Thallion ordered the _elleth_, who the elder brother now recognized as a scout from their furthest outpost. "It's all right, Anthel."

Anthel, her eyes wide and her face still pale from what must have been a very sudden dash to Calaeron's study, nodded meekly.

"There are elves, _hir nin,"_ she began, wringing the bottom of her tunic in both her slender hands. "From _Imladris,_ a whole host of them. And not just warriors, but healers and cooks and weapon smiths. All from Lord Elrond!"

The crown prince felt his jaw drop, aware of how silly he must look but unable to stop his reaction. Why had they come? It couldn't be….

"That isn't all," Thallion encouraged, looking as though he could come apart from the sheer energy that Calaeron hadn't seen a single glimpse of in months.

"Yes, _hir nin," _Anthel continued. "Prince Legolas was among them. He has returned safely."

Calaeron leapt to his feet, feeling like the ground could cave in beneath him and he wouldn't even notice. He vaguely registered the sound of Hrávo jumping from his own chair, but all he could focus on was Thallion's face. He sought reassurance in the Avar's expression, begging him with just a look. _'Please let this be true.'_

Thallion came to stand in front of him, meeting his gaze and placing two large hands on the older elf's shoulders.

"He has come back, Cal," Thallion smiled brighter than he had since before they lost twelve brave elves to the darkness. "Let us bring him home at last."

* * *

The two eldest princes of Mirkwood had never traveled anywhere in less time than it took them to reach the far outpost. After Anthel's news, the two had scrambled to their fastest horses, hardly allowing Hrávo the time to pull a few warriors together for a protection detail. Word was sent to the king, and they knew their father would forgive them for not delivering the news themselves if it meant bringing Legolas back to the palace that much quicker.

They didn't dare speak, but they kept shooting each other hopeful glances the closer they got to the outpost. It was evident by the pure concentration of _life _they could feel emanating from the trees that hope had returned to the forest. A light that they hadn't seen in longer than either wanted to admit.

When they reached the edges of the outpost, they began spotting the _Imladris _elves.

The sheer size of the force they were met with caused emotion-filled lumps to form in their throats. Tears of relief prickled at the corners of their eyes as elf after elf nodded to them with respect, a token they felt they did not deserve but which they accepted nonetheless. The two princes should be on their knees with gratitude for their presence in what was their greatest hour of need!

Much as they wished they could stop and greet each foreign elf personally, the two sons of Thranduil had eyes for only one.

He stood among a small group, flanked on either side by two identical dark-haired elves. Calaeron nearly lost his balance, for he dismounted his horse before the faithful steed had even come to a full halt. But he simply did not care.

The crown prince found himself with an armful of blond prince only moments after his feet touched the ground. Thallion wrapped his long arms around both of them barely a breath later, and all three brothers held each other as tightly as they could. Something finally clicked into place for Calaeron, having Legolas back and pressed into his chest, so warm and real and _alive!_

Large, fat tears rolled down his cheeks and the oldest brother suddenly realized that he was murmuring Legolas' name over and over again. Thallion was trembling, equally-large tears staining his pale face as he ran his large hands through the beloved elfling's blond hair.

"I'm sorry," Legolas wept, his smaller hands fisting into the fabric of Calaeron's tunic. "I'm so s-sorry."

Thallion pulled the boy away from Calaeron so that he could look at him face-to-face, and the older brother tried not to feel bereft at the sudden disconnection.

"No, _Penneth," _the Avar spoke with such pained joy, hardly daring to believe that he was actually staring into his little brother's face after dreaming of this moment for months. "You have nothing to be sorry for. You were so brave, Legolas. So, so brave."

Legolas let out another cry and buried his face into Thallion's shoulder, eager to be sure for himself that his brother was alive. The orcs had claimed they'd killed him, after all.

"I thought you were dead," he cried, earning a startled pause from the older elf. Thallion looked over Legolas' hair at the twins, acknowledging their presence for the first time while simultaneously pouring every ounce of gratitude into his gaze. Without a word, he held the elfling even tighter.

"Legolas narrowly escaped your orcs shortly after their encounter with your guard," Elladan explained. "They were bragging."

Calaeron reached out to rub Legolas' back, both older brothers instantly understanding what Elladan meant without him having to say anything more.

"He was a little hurt, _Penneth," _Calaeron assured, receiving a small nod from against the Avar's chest. "But he is perfectly fine now."

Reassured at last, Legolas sniffled and pulled his face away from the warm fabric of Thallion's tunic. He swiped shaking fingers across his cheeks to clear any remaining tears and fixed his two brothers with a warm, pleading smile.

"Can we go home, now?"

Calaeron and Thallion laughed abruptly, both nodding and pulling Legolas in for another hug. They would be doing that a lot, yet not a single one of them would complain about it after so much time apart.

"Let's go home, Legolas."

* * *

It didn't take long to gather their supplies and set back out on the road towards the palace. Thallion, Calaeron, and Legolas were joined by the twins and Hrávo's small guard, while the remaining _Imladris _party made camp at the outpost for the night. They would finish their journey in the morning.

Legolas rode with Calaeron, despite riding his own horse the entirety of his time with the _Imladris _elves. Snuggling back into the eldest prince's chest, he couldn't find it in himself to care that he was too big to be sharing a horse. Calaeron wrapped his arms around the boy and ran his fingers through long, silky blond hair just to reassure himself that the elfling was truly safe and warm and _alive _in his arms.

Little was said on the short passage home, but a promise hung in the air for more information to come later. The brothers would have a lot to share with each other from the time they were apart, but they decided that it could all wait in favor of basking in the joy of finally being in each other's presence again.

Coming up on the palace, Legolas felt his jaw drop just a little. It was like he was seeing his home for the first time, and he let his eyes devour every inch of the place that had sheltered him his entire life.

They reached the courtyard, and on the palace steps stood a frail blond figure. Thranduil held himself with the same regality as he always had, but Legolas noticed the difference right away. His magnificent hair was dull, like the sun hidden away on an overcast day, and he didn't seem to radiate the same bright strength he usually did.

Calaeron helped Legolas off their horse and led him to the base of the steps where their father waited.

Thranduil met him at the bottom, gripping Legolas' face in both hands as if convincing himself that it was really him. And when he found whatever he was looking for, the elfling watched in horror as his father's entire being seemed to break in front of him, clutching him to his chest as tight as he could. The Elvenking shook hard, crying into his youngest son's hair and whispering his name like a prayer.

But instead of making Thranduil look weak, the overpowering display of love and affection had the opposite effect. The king had never appeared stronger, and Legolas let out a harsh sob as he clutched him equally tightly.

They were joined in their reunion by Thallion and Calaeron, and the four royals clung to each other. Over his sons' heads, Thranduil mouthed a desperate _Hannon le _to Elladan and Elrohir, understanding the hand they had to play in the safe return of his son.

He would give the sons of Elrond the world if they asked for it.

Later that evening, Legolas snuggled into the blankets of Thranduil's bed, accidentally kicking Calaeron in the process. It was a wonder that all four of them still fit in the king's bed, but Legolas wouldn't have it any other way.

He had spent several hours filling his family in on everything that had happened over the last three months, including his perils in the forest, the orc party, the wolves, Faervere's dagger… even his hallucinations of their lost loved one. And when the entirety of his tale had been shared, the king had wordlessly ushered his sons to bed and held them all close. In that moment, he could be a father and not a king.

Legolas fell asleep against Thranduil's chest with an arm reaching out to both brothers on either side, a content little smile on his face. And finally, it seemed, all was right with the world.

* * *

At first light, Legolas woke somewhat disoriented. He was tangled in covers, one leg flung off to the side and the corner of his mouth damp with drool. His hair was matted on one half of his head and he couldn't quite figure out how to get _out _of the covers.

Thranduil and Calaeron had already risen for the day, busy making preparations for the arrival of the _Imladris _party. But Legolas hadn't been left entirely alone.

In a chair by the fire sat Thallion, keeping silent despite an amused grin on his face at Legolas' struggles.

"What have those blankets ever done to you, _Tithen Las?"_

He strode to the bed and helped Legolas free his legs from the confines of soft fabric, smoothing it back over his limbs with quick, sure movements—careful to be gentle with his still-tender ankle. The Avar then reached out and tugged on a tangled lock of hair, chuckling at the frizzy strands that attached themselves to his hand with static.

"You never could seem to keep this hair of yours neat," he mused, gently working the tangle out of the hair. Once he finished with that section, he began carefully detangling the rest with a warm, fond smile. "My people, the Avari, placed a lot of importance on hair. It was a significant part of who we were as a culture. Braids were given to young warriors at the completion of a great obstacle, but there was always something special about the first one. Something sacred."

Thallion's voice was low and serious, and Legolas held himself absolutely still. It wasn't often that his brother spoke of his people, and any mention of them was a rare occurrence. It was a generally-accepted fact that the Avar wore his hair with so many braids because of his people, but the significance had never really been explained.

"Our first braid was a mark of achievement over a crucial milestone in our lives," he explained, very precisely separating one section of hair behind Legolas' right ear and beginning to plait it. "The hair is split into three sections, each representing the most important aspects of our lives. Our family, our people, and our home. Each strand is woven together, signifying that we are strongest when we combine these facets of life. Once plaited, the hair is always distinguishable from the rest, just as we can never lose sight of what's most important no matter what we face in life.

"You did a very brave thing, _Penneth," _he was halfway through the braid, lifting his gaze from the hair to the now serious eyes of his younger brother. "You entered that forest with only three things on your mind, and _you _were not one of those three things. You put your family, your people, and your home before yourself when you set out on your journey. You very nearly lost your life, but you overcame something that none of us would ever have been able to at your age."

Thallion finished the braid and held it with one hand while he slid a worn leather cord out of his own hair.

"This band represents you," he wrapped it around the end and tied it in a sturdy, secure knot. "You are what keep your family, your people, and your home together. This cord was given to me by my father when I earned my first braid."

Legolas' head shot up, his mouth opening in surprise. He took a breath, ready to stop Thallion from giving away such an important item, when he was stopped with just one look. The Avar said more in that look than he could have with a thousand words, and Legolas was left speechless.

"This was given to me by my father, and his father to him, and I want you to have it," his voice was low, but intense as he finished the knot and held the hair in the fingers of his left hand. "It is a part of the tradition, Legolas. The one who ties the knot passes their first cord down."

Legolas said nothing, nodding and taking the end of the braid in both of his hands, looking in awe at the unassuming cord around the blond strands. How that one piece of leather had been cared for and kept for what must have been thousands of years, Legolas could not fathom. But he felt tears prickling in the corners of his eyes, and his throat was tight over the gravity of the gesture.

"You have brought light back to this kingdom, Legolas," Thallion placed two warm hands on the younger elf's shoulders, smiling with such pride that Legolas' throat felt even tighter. "You are a beacon of light shining from all this darkness, and we could not ever be more proud of you."

The young prince flung himself into Thallion's arms, squeezing him tight, allowing Thallion to rock him back and forth for several moments. The older brother waited until Legolas regained his composure, smoothing the rest of the elfling's hair back down and running his hands over Legolas' back.

"When you're ready, there is one more gift waiting for you in your courtyard."

Surprise registered through Legolas as he nodded, moving to the edge of the bed and sliding out of the warmth left behind.

Thallion waited quietly just outside the room as he got dressed, which Legolas hurried through despite his brother's patience. After so long without his family, he had no desire to spend more time away from them than he had to. He was even more eager to discover what further surprises were planned for him.

Once he was dressed, he pressed himself close to Thallion's side as they walked down the corridor. If the Avar noticed Legolas' proximity, he certainly didn't make any mention of it.

They reached the elfling's favorite courtyard, but the young elf was stopped from entering by two small figures that flung themselves into him. Alarcien and Mitsion had heard of their friend's return and were only mildly annoyed that they had to wait until morning to reunite with Legolas.

"Don't you dare ever do that to us again," Alarcien swatted Legolas upside the back of his head, causing Thallion to swallow down a surprised laugh at the _elleth's _reaction. She had shown much courage and tenacity through this latest ordeal, and the older prince couldn't have been more glad for the support that Legolas' best friends would offer him. Friends like them were a rare thing to come by, and the elfling would need all the friends he could get.

"Yeah," Mitsion added, gripping Legolas' arms in the tightest grasp he could manage. "Your brothers are more terrifying than angry orcs!"

"Is that so?"

A low growl came from none other than Calaeron, who was watching the reunion just feet away with a fond smile lighting his face. If it weren't for the mischievous glint in the crown prince's eyes, Legolas would have been worried for his friends.

Mitsion's eyes became huge, and he gulped in fear. But then Calaeron laughed out loud, winking at the young elf before stepping forward and clasping Mitsion on the back.

"Ah, you've started without us!"

Elladan and Elrohir entered the courtyard, taking it in with appreciative eyes as they glided across the frosty grass to where Legolas and his friends were standing.

"Started what?" Legolas looked between the twins, his friends, and his brothers. "These two weren't the surprise you were talking about?"

Thallion shook his head, motioned the two _Peredhil _forward and backing up to stand beside Calaeron instead.

"No, _Penneth," _Elrohir assured, bringing one hand out from behind his back. "This was your surprise."

Elladan copied his brother's movements, holding out an object identical to that which Elrohir held.

Two beautiful daggers, shining in the light and catching the sun's rays, were held in their hands. Each one had a white bone hilt, perfectly sized and painstakingly crafted. They looked just like the one he'd lost, the one which had belonged to Faervere. Legolas didn't know how they'd done it.

"They're identical," Elrohir explained.

"Like us, to remember us by," Elladan added.

For the second time that morning, the elfling found himself speechless. And in tears, though he refused to acknowledge them. He opened and closed his mouth so many times, he was sure he probably looked like a fish out of water. But he couldn't form the words he wanted to say. He couldn't express the gratitude he wanted to offer.

"We had them inscribed with your mother and brother's names," Elrohir held his out, gently placing it in Legolas' grasp so he could see the elegant script that was etched into the base of the blade. _Lanthir._

"We bribed a smithy," Elladan elbowed Legolas.

"He owed us a favor," Elrohir argued, shaking his head in exasperation.

"It sounds better if we say 'bribe,' brother."

Elrohir gave Legolas a look as if to say _"brothers…" _and Legolas let out a tear-filled chuckle. He was so thankful for their gift, as he was thankful for everything they and their father had done for him. From rescuing him in the forest, to nurturing him back to health, and all the way to escorting him back home at last.

He was surrounded by elves who loved and cared for him, and a warmth rushed through his body. These were the elves he'd risked everything for, and despite everything he'd survived—he'd do it again in a heartbeat if it meant keeping them safe.

"It's so good to be home."

_THE END_


End file.
